Risk Factor: Revamped Version!
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: Charles Ofdensen has always had everything, or so he thought. But if something insufferably good came between him and Dethklok, which would he choose?
1. Chapter 1

**Risk Factor-**A Metalocalypse Fanfic **(REVAMPED VERSION!)**

**Rating:** Mature, for language, sexual imagery, and violence.

**Summary:** Charles Ofdensen has always had everything, or so he thought. But if something insufferably good came between him and Dethklok, which would he choose?

**Author's Note:** This story has been finished for almost a year now, but that's just it. Today, I ended up doodling a few scenes from this fic in my sketchbook, and it prompted me to reread what I had written. As I look back on it from where I am now, I'm cringing. It seriously needs to be overhauled, and I need the boost to finish Contingency Plan, this tale's long-dormant companion fic. So, whether you're new to the story or you've read it before, I'd like to welcome you now or welcome you back, and I hope you find this version to be even better than it was before. A big thanks goes out to all my previous reviewers- I never could've done this without you. You rock! And now, with out further procrastination- on to the story! Happy reading!

* * *

The crisp fall air butted against Mordhaus and blew crunchy leaves across the land beneath it, which swirled like phantasms in the early morning. A seemingly sedate car pulled onto the premises, immediately swarmed by Klokateers wearing overcoats and gloves in addition to their executioners' masks. It seemed like hours before the inner sanctum guards were radioed to seek entrance for the newcomer, and the sun was dousing the sky in shades of pink and orange.

Inside Mordhaus, an exhausted Charles Foster Ofdensen removed his glasses and rubbed at his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn't slept, and he hadn't gone to his room the night before, or even snoozed in his office chair. He had just poured over paper after paper, lawsuit after lawsuit from disgruntled parents whose children had died at Dethklok concerts, and wondered why it mattered so much to them. Charles never liked children; regardless of their age, when he had to look at people as someone's offspring, he got goosebumps and felt nauseated. Money mattered, which was why he worked so hard to make sure said disgruntled parents either disappeared or didn't get a cent. Dethklok mattered, which was why he spent all his time and effort making damn certain they were morbidly happy, healthy, and on top of the world. Even dying hadn't changed his outlook for the better. His life revolved solely around his work.

He sighed and stretched, the first rays of light nearly blinding him as he leaned as far back as the chair would go. The stubble on his face that was just slightly tinged with gray pricked his hand as he desperately tried to work off the shots he'd thrown down through the long hours of the night. He was worn out, hung over, and inexplicably angry, out of nowhere.

Charles stewed in his sudden attitude as he schlepped across his office to his mahogany cabinet, where he kept an extra suit for just such occasions. He put on a fresh pot of coffee for himself, and went to shower and shave. The only one that was usually awake at this time of the morning, besides the Klokateers on the day shift, was Toki, who was no bother to him this early.

He was completely alone in the shower, and in a rare moment fueled by alcohol and insomnia, let all defenses fall as he stepped into the spray. Charles' usually taut body went limp, and he slumped to the shower floor, not caring that he banged his bad knee on the hard tiles below. He tipped his face to the warm water and exhaled, feeling some of the stress in his shoulders abate. Even the shoulders of a man who constantly carried the weight of the world needed to rest eventually. He reached up, touching the scars that adorned his body, and then touched the faint mark across his left cheek, shivering.

Suddenly, a knock at the heavy wooden door.

"Sir? There's someone here who says they must speak with you…shall I have them executed?"

Charles scrambled to his feet and poked his head out of the shower stall, clearing his throat to address the Klokateer.

"No, no, that, ah…that won't be necessary. Send them to my office. Keep a couple guards on them at all times. I'll be there shortly."

Charles waited until the Klokateers' footsteps faded into the distance beyond the bathroom before sighing loudly and slipping back into the soothing spray. He washed quickly, shaved, dressed, and slicked his chestnut hair back, noticing how long it was getting and making a mental note to have it trimmed.

Charles looked at his reflection, squared his shoulders, and marched out of the bathroom like the soldier he was. His office was only down the hall, but he took his time getting there, calculating a game plan for the rest of the day.

It was only when he reached the door that it registered that he had no idea _who_ was inside his office. He hadn't scheduled any meetings, no one was due for anything…he stopped in mid foot-fall and frowned. Something was amiss; he was immediately on guard.

Charles flung open the door and looked around coolly. There was a slight figure at his window, peering out at the desolate landscape below. The figure was silhouetted, however, so he could only make out a vague human shape, and not the face. He strode in, and the figure turned around. He still found his eyes adjusting to the light pouring through the glass, so he simply spoke.

"Hello. I'm, ah, Charles Ofdensen. Is there… something I can do for you?" He leaned across his own desk and extended his hand.

The figure moved under the cast light of the chandelier, and Charles was surprised, but shook it off quickly. The demure young woman smiled up at him, but her handshake belied her expression. It was firm and confident, much unlike what he was expecting.

"Zoe Warwick. It's a pleasure, Mr. Ofdensen. I'm a big fan of your work."

Charles blinked.

"Excuse me, my work?"

Zoe nodded. "Well, yes, of course! You manage every aspect of the biggest band in history. How is absolutely unknown-but, then again, that's sort of why I'm here."

The young lady moved around the desk, her gray booted stilettos clicking on the hard wood and her pleated slate skirt swishing around her knees. Charles looked her over evenly. She looked very smart, he thought. Morbidly corporate casual. Her suitcoat matched her skirt, and the blood red silk dress shirt underneath nearly matched his tie. All in all, perfectly suited for his realm of Mordhaus.

He figured she would be dead before the end of business that day.

Charles gestured to the arm chair in front of his desk as he crossed behind it and settled into his personal seat of power. Zoe nodded her thanks and seated herself prettily, smoothing her skirt. He folded his hands on the desk and waited. She lifted her briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers, then cleared her throat.

"Mr. Ofdensen, I'm a new hire with Crystal Mountain Records, and though during college I interned for them, I've been told I am being assigned as your assistant before I am able to manage contracts of my own."

Charles leaned back, his brows knitting together in the middle of his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Miss Warwick, but I think there's, ah, been a mistake. I work alone, hiring my own assistants when and if I need them. And, quite frankly, you do not possess the… qualifications I look for in hiring such an assistant." He pulled a snooty face to punctuate his surety.

Zoe processed this information with narrowed eyes. She quirked an eyebrow at the end of his refusal for her services, but did not comment on the obvious insult. Instead of moving, however, she thrust the pile of papers towards Charles and then sat back, crossing her legs and propping her head up on her hand like bored royalty. Charles pulled the stack towards him, adjusting his glasses. At first, he skimmed the pile, but as the minutes ticked by he became more and more engrossed in his reading, and his expression grew more and more sour. Zoe yawned.

"In the iron clad contract before you, you will find that you do not have to sacrifice a cent of the money Dethklok makes to me, except for the obvious paycheck I receive from the revenue obtained by Crystal Mountain. I am here to be a helping hand, not a hindrance. The contract states that you may not terminate me as your assistant unless I fail to perform my duties adequately and efficiently, lest you face a pay dock and possible performance review."

Charles looked up at her over the rim of his glasses.

"I know what it says, Miss Warwick. I _am_ capable of reading, you know."

Zoe blushed, looking down at her folded hands.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ofdensen. I overstepped. Of all people, I know just how capable you are."

Again, Charles glanced up at her, and she rushed to expand.

"You're a legend on campus, Mr. Ofdensen. All law, executive, business management, and financial assistance students practically worship you. You've written the book for the next wave of corporate competitors."

The manager felt the faint traces of a smile turn up the corners of his lips, and he took a brief moment to revel in his pride and rarely stroked ego.

"Well, Miss Warwick, I'm flattered, really. That's quite the, ah, thing to say. As for the position…I am serious when I say you've been sent to assist in what will likely lead to your own death. I see that if you refuse this position for personal reasons, Crystal Mountain will ah, terminate your employment. However, it would seem they're already out to get you."

Zoe seemed to grow smaller, the chair engulfing her, but her gaze remained steady.

"Pardon my ignorance, but what do you mean, sir?"

Charles smirked. The overhead light caught his glasses as he inclined his head to hide his expression, and reflected, completely obscuring his eyes. He suddenly looked as demonic as he felt.

"It's, ah, quite simple, Miss Warwick. All of my assistants are constantly being maimed, slaughtered, and killed in some very unpleasant way. It has… never failed, since I began working as Dethklok's manager. The assistants I choose are always Klokateers, who have been trained to fight to the death and to protect Dethklok at the cost of their own lives. They already know all the ins and outs of working for the band and living in Mordhaus. Many are trained as assassins or guards if they survive long enough to get promoted. So, you, ah, see, it is highly unlikely that you will be able to serve as my assistant and preserve your own existence, or even be of any use to me. A college degree is worth next to nothing when you work with this band."

Charles' intent had been to make her cry, and he had the secret satisfaction of watching micro expressions of rejection, horror, and anger flit across Zoe's face. But when he saw determination set in, he was taken aback. Her eyes grew steely and she leaned forward, a triumphant smile on her face.

"So, what time do you want me here tomorrow morning?"

Charles was beginning to calculate the extent to which he would find her annoying, and the extent to which she might actually prove a valuable asset, should she survive. At that moment, both weighed equally against each other. At the least, she would make a useful diversion in many a situation.

Charles gave her a long look, the finality of his new assistant sinking in. And then, he reached out and shook her hand.

"9 AM sharp."

Zoe exhaled the breath she'd been holding and flashed Charles a brilliant smile, giggling nervously, but happily. She took the manager's hand tightly in her own, and stood up.

"Thank you, Mr. Ofdensen. I promise I'll do whatever it takes to learn from you and help you without getting in your way." She beamed.

Charles was feeling slightly unnerved by her joy, and diffused her by standing stiffly and showing her to the door.

"Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, Mr. Ofdensen, please, call me Zoe." She looked up at him as she turned around at the door. He shook his head.

"Thanks, but I don't think so. Now, let me get you acquainted with Mordhaus, and then I'll introduce you to the band." He was just happy to have an excuse to stretch his legs, regardless of the unnecessary companionship, though it would have made more sense to make a Klokateer orient her.

Zoe nodded, straightening her coat and shrugging as she was resigned to a last name basis, and followed just behind Charles, about to embark on the adventure of her life. He, on the other hand, was feverishly computing how long it would take a woman like Zoe Warwick to meet the reaper while working for Dethklok.

The more devious part of him hoped it wouldn't be long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Zoe's heels echoed ominously as Charles escorted her throughout Mordhaus. He had already pulled aside a Klokateer and had them running an extensive background check on his new "assistant," and within a few minutes he would know everything about her, right down to her blood type. Not that he was particularly concerned about a one-woman show destroying Mordhaus or Dethklok- He already knew she wasn't a Revengencer. Infiltration like this wasn't their style, ever. She stayed quiet, absorbing everything and asking questions only when absolutely necessary. Still, he kept from her places like the control center, fearing prying eyes until he was certain he could leave her in the presence of such delicate information- which would probably be never.

The two Klokateers that were serving as guards (not that Charles needed them to handle the likes of her) marched in time at the back of the corporate procession, and sent shivers up and down Zoe's spine. She felt more at ease standing closer to Charles then to the masked men. Whether it was a specific phobia or generalized discomfort, she would not allow herself to say. She had to remain straight laced and sturdy in the face of this new, decidedly macabre world. Still, she began to chew on her bottom lip before remembering she would ruin her crimson lipstick.

Though she knew she should be focusing (or she would never self-navigate the depths of Mordhaus) on what Charles had to show her, only half of her mind was on her tour. The other half wandered to her still star-struck self, and she studied the confident, yet nearly mechanical way he strode the red and black halls. Yes, Charles Foster Ofdensen walked like he owned the world- and, in effect, he did.

Her mind honed back in suddenly on her guide's bored-sounding words.

"And here, we have the outer, ah…'gardens,' I guess you could call them."

Charles threw open the heavy double doors and revealed the large grassy area outside, which had been resettled into the gaping hole it had left in the ground when Mordhaus had been hidden away in the sky. Zoe gasped at the sudden wind, which took her breath away and whipped her thick auburn hair from its tight bun. Charles strode forward, spotting the members of Dethklok farther out in the landscaped glade. Zoe followed, fighting hard not to sink her stilettos into the ground and fall. In her stupor, she neglected to fix her hair, and the nippiness brought a flushed ruddiness to her pale, sparsely speckled cheeks.

Charles approached the band without a care in the world, and Toki was the first to notice him and his companion out of the corner of his eye.

"Hi Charles. Why's you here? And, who be's the ladys?" He rubbed one gloved hand over the other, leaning on the grip of his seven iron.

This grabbed the attention of the rest of the band, reacting like starved dogs would to being let loose in a delicatessen. Nathan Explosion lost his concentration, but swung through anyway, hitting the teed golfball at an angle and lobbing it cockeyed across the green. Somewhere, that ball collided with the head of a nameless Klokateer, and plunged straight through, exploding his entire head and covering the lawn in widely spattered pints of blood. Said ball continued to travel on, bounced off the elbow of a landscaper and broke his arm (after which, the chainsaw he'd been holding flipped up and sawed him in half) and smacked into the forehead of yet another gear. It wasn't traveling with enough speed to blow his head up, however, but he would later suffer a subdural hematoma and die shortly thereafter. Such was the existence of Gears.

"Morning, boys. This is Miss Warwick. She'll be serving as my new, ah… _assistant._" The ice in his voice was abrupt, and Zoe caught herself before she winced visibly.

If the band's collective jaws had been severed surgically, they could not have dropped any farther.

Zoe felt her face heat up as the band openly began to look her up and down, taking stock of whatever valuable "assets" they felt she might possess that had piqued their manager's interest.

"Wowee, Ofdensens! She's a real ladies!" Toki exclaimed, and the girl blushed. He walked a little closer, wary of the dark expression firmly plastered in Charles' eyes, but his intrigue easily overcame his fear.

"I ams Toki, and this is Nat'an,"-

_"Hullo."_

"Skiwisgaar,"-

_"Please to be meetings yous."_

"Murderface,"-

_"'Shup."_

"ands Pickle."

_"Hi there!"_

Zoe smiled nervously at them, shaking the hands that were extended, and turning a little more pink when Skwisgaar wiggled an eyebrow at her and kissed the back of her hand, eliciting a jealous glare from Murderface.

"Zoe," was all she said, feeling the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle with electricity from Charles' attitude.

"Does yous wants to play the golfs with us?" Toki asked, hopeful.

Zoe opened her mouth to speak, but was abruptly cut off by her new employer.

"Ah, no, Toki, sorry, but Miss Warwick isn't…well, she doesn't have time for that right now. She needs to be informed of how things work around here. Maybe some other time."

The Norwegian pouted, dropping his golf club onto the grassy ground and crossing his arms.

"Aw, yous never has times fors us, Charles, ams nows you make de nice lady has no times fors us, too?" He whined. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He already knew where this was going.

"Yeah, dood, like, why can't she make up her own mind, y'know?"

"And uh, why are you always too busy to hang out with us lately?" Nathan challenged, aiding Toki and Pickles in their unified attack on Charles' lack of free time.

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps it's because I'm always doing my job- You understand, right? My, ah, job of booking your shows, scheduling your interviews and conferences, selling your records, safeguarding your money for you, making sure you have everything you could ever possibly want or need," at this, Murderface's eyes widened, and Charles was quick to add 'within reason' to his speech, "and generally looking out for your wellbeing?"

As per the norm, none of it was spoken in anger. There was only a slight hint of annoyance in his mainly monotone voice, which was-as always- overlooked.

Toki looked down, ashamed of starting something he shouldn't have.

"I ams sorry, Charles. We knows how hards yous works for us."

Charles shrugged dismissively at the unsolicited apology.

"It's quite alright, Toki. Look, maybe later this week we can, ah, go out or something. Grab a, ah…a couple of drinks. I'll see what I can do."

Cheers went up from the metal band, and Zoe was surprised. For all the press about them, they seemed like relatively normal people. She was torn between telling Charles to suck it, that she didn't need the job, and playing golf with the fascinating menagerie of musicians, or following him back into Mordhaus with a heavy, questioning heart.

But, of course, the former was a lie, so she chose the latter, knowing it would only leave temporary sorrow, instead of the constant one the loss of everything she'd ever aspired to be would bear.

"Now, if you'll excuse us, we have business to attend to." Charles turned on his heel, quickly crossing the yard with brisk, wide strides. Zoe held up her hands in a sign of defeat to the band, waving.

"Bye, guys. It was nice meeting you! I'll see you later…er, sometime, I guess." The band waved in response, mumbling their goodbyes and turning back to their game.

Zoe hurried as quickly as she could across the dying grass, hating herself for not wearing more sensible shoes. Then again, she hadn't expected to be accepted so quickly, or to end up golfing with Dethklok.

Her mind suddenly reeled from the sheer calamity of her day, though she carefully kept it from her face as the Klokateers shut the thick doors behind her with a thud. But Charles whirled on her, leaving her no time to ponder her disturbing thoughts.

"Now, did you see that, Miss Warwick? That was the seventh biggest economy in the world, happy, mostly carefree, _playing golf_. They are what I am all about. Protecting them and keeping them on top is what I do, and I do it very well, if I do say so myself. All of the Klokateers that ever were and ever will be, and myself strive to make sure Dethklok can play as much golf as they want. We _live_ for Dethklok, do you understand? It's no joke- it is a merciless, tiring, bone-crushingly difficult job. You cannot give them too much leeway, or, ah, God knows what would happen to the world and themselves. But you cannot give them nothing, either. If Dethklok seeks my companionship at a bar, then they'll get it when I can manage the time. If Dethklok wanted to purchase Switzerland, and it was in their best interests, then they would get Switzerland, or I would diffuse their interest with something more pertinent to their likes and dislikes. Am I clear, Miss Warwick? As of right now, you can still leave. You can walk out those doors, and no one would try to stop you. But if you choose to stay, you will live out the rest of your days, numbered as they likely are, without recognition, without friendship, and without any sort of human comfort other than bare necessity and the comfort of a job well done. Now. Do you think you can handle this?"

She felt herself slipping, felt herself quavering like a quaking aspen. What had she been thinking? She knew she wasn't up to this. Couldn't handle this. She'd gone from a cushy life in her parents' house to a college dorm, and regardless of a flawless grade point average everywhere she went and the knowledge she'd obtained, she had no idea how to handle herself in the real world, let alone a world that mixed reality with what seemed to be medieval fantasy. She wanted to go home, slip into her favorite t-shirt and pajama pants, turn on her favorite movie, and crawl into bed, cocooning herself in her comforter like she used to do when she was a little girl. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue, her dark brown eyes fluttering shut. Her answer was wholeheartedly no.

_"…Yes._"

It took Zoe a moment to recognize the fact that the voice reverberating in a whispered echo through the hallway was hers, and soft as it was, she sounded strong and confident. It was the complete opposite of what she was feeling, which turned from disgust at her own shortcomings and fear at an absurdly life-threatening job as an apprentice desk jockey to utter mortification.

She opened her watering eyes to find herself staring into her employers' hooded green ones, a hint of a smirk descending upon his pallid lips.

"Good. Ah, set her up with a room in the female quarters. Then come see me after lunch, to begin your training."

And with that, Charles Ofdensen disappeared down the hall, leaving an utterly befuddled young woman in the care of two burly masked men, trying to comprehend what had just transpired. She followed them down the hall for a moment, active patterns of conscious thought desperately trying to return to her brain. She latched onto something, and went with it.

"Excuse me…but, _training?"_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The sky was darkening over Mordhaus when day two of Zoe's training began to come to a slow rolling close. She blinked, trying to force the sleep from her eyes as she quietly studied the vast goldmine of information before her.

Lunch the day before had been a nerve wracking affair. She found her way into the Klokateers' mess hall, feeling extremely out of place as the only one present that wasn't wearing the tell-tale evil-eyed executioner's hood. She watched the Klokateers eat in dubious fascination, noting they did not remove their hoods, but simply lifted the hem with each mouthful of food. Flushing scarlet as she noticed many black masks turn her way, she gave up on the idea of eating and scurried back to her room, embarrassed and admittedly terrified.

During the time she spent watching the clock, Zoe paced around her small chamber, assessing the situation she now found herself in, for better or worse. When it came time for her to meet with Charles about this mysterious "training," she practically sprinted to his office. Regaining her composure at the door, she lifted her hand to knock, when she heard him call out.

"Come in, Miss Warwick. I need to get this out of the way now. I'm, ah, very busy."

She gulped, and then relaxed, realizing he could hear her stilettos in the hall. Stepping in, he barely glanced up at her before burying his nose back in his paperwork.

Zoe seated herself in the beige armchair, déjà vu overwhelming her. It reminded her of middle school, and being called into the principal's office on several occasions for witnessing the less than exemplary behavior of other students. Once, and only once, had she been found at fault. She had gotten caught writing on the bathroom wall, but she had only been trying to work out a complex fractional equation in private, so she could return to the classroom with the answer and not seem like she had to take all day to work it out. And so, upon hearing her story and knowing the equation had been written in pencil, the principal had let her off with a warning, and it never made it into her permanent record.

Charles snapped her out of her reverie abruptly, clearing his throat and pushing the papers aside.

"There is, ah, something I've noticed already about you, Miss, ah, Warwick, that I feel the need to share with you. I have the feeling you think you've got it, ah, all together, am I right?"

Zoe felt nearly vain when she felt her head nodding in response to Charles' question.

"Well, perhaps you do. But my point is, no matter what you think you may know, in here, logic is, ah, usually about a mile wide chasm between you and your goal. And your goal is…?"

She thought for a moment, sensing the man's mounting impatience.

"To…protect Dethklok?"

"Very good. We can calculate as many different scenarios as we want, we can put all the trappings and the safeguards in place, but in the end, it is up to us to make sure every moment of the boys' life goes smoothly. Admittedly it does not always work out that way, but it is not for, ah, lack of trying. One of the main points I try to remind them of before every meeting is not to punch people. You will find that as your time here wears on, Miss Warwick, you will, ah…you will begin to want to punch people as well. But you can't, and you must not ever let those feelings get the best of you. Am I clear?"

In the back of her mind, Zoe wondered how many times before Charles had given this speech. It sounded very well rehearsed. But she simply nodded again.

"Yes, sir."

"Alright then. About your training. You have come here at a very fortunate time- at least, for you, it is. To work as my assistant, you need to have the, ah, assistant training, _and_ the Klokateer training. And, lucky for you, we are currently running on a monthly Klokateer training seminar schedule. This means that instead of the week to week basis we were working off of when we were in the, ah, danger zone last…well, whatever. Meh. The point is, you have two full weeks to complete your training before the seminar. During which time, I will turn you into a flawlessly functioning gear."

Zoe frowned.

"A…gear, sir?" She queried softly.

"Yeah. The people who serve Dethklok are all looked at as, ah, 'gears', myself included. We all function as a whole to keep the great wheel that _is_ Dethklok turning. You have to become a gear in order to work as my assistant."

She was just beginning to understand the full magnitude of what she had gotten herself involved in when Charles stood, meandering over to a broad filing cabinet. He opened the top drawer, thumbed through the countless, but flawlessly organized folders, and began to remove full files and stack them in the crook of his left arm. He repeated the process with the other three drawers, and then set the files down. Zoe watched as he opened yet another cabinet on the opposite side of the room, this one without the hanging runners for paper folders. From this he removed a few black three-ring binders, and from another drawer, some well-worn books.

All of this he proceeded to set in Zoe's lap, and her chocolate eyes widened. Charles reseated himself, and folded his hands in front of himself on the desk.

"Read it. All of it. Memorize it. In those pages, you'll find dossiers on all of the important people I deal with on a regular basis, from the Crystal Mountain executives to the Queen of England. You need to know, ah, modern cultural customs, world history, and have a general grasp on basic greetings and sentences in about three other languages. There are also our current legal suits, past legal suits, and a generalized selection of Dethkloks' rather…ah, _colorful_ legal history. Besides that, I have given you the Klokateer code to study up on, which is actually a blessing for you, because you shouldn't receive that unless you actually pass the, ah, final test."

Again, Zoe, frowned.

"Test, Mr. Ofdensen?" She felt stupid and was ashamed of her obviously annoying ignorance. But Charles dismissed her question with an imperious shake of his head and didn't answer.

"Never mind that right now. In short, there's a lot to do and I need it done by Monday evening. Think you can, ah, handle that?"

She knew she couldn't. Never in her life, even with all her Honors courses, had she had so much to do in so little time. But the look in Charles' eyes told her it was not the type of question where she had a choice in the outcome of her answer.

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"Good. Get to it. You can return to your room or sit on the couch- whichever you prefer. But if you stay here, be quiet."

Zoe hefted the lofty stack of work in her arms and stood, wobbling under the weight. She carefully maneuvered to the couch, setting everything down on the coffee table and surprising herself when she didn't drop anything.

And there she had remained for the better part of two days. She had returned to her room only to catch an hour's sleep the night before, and to change her clothes. The only other time she moved was to use the bathroom or obtain food- which, she discovered quickly, was a major pet peeve of her employers'.

That first night, she found herself unable to concentrate, and unable to figure out why. She felt ill, all of a sudden, and wondered if she hadn't come down with some strange cold or flu. In this place, she supposed anything could happen. Her head spun and the endless sea of words rocked her blurry vision. So engrossed was she in trying to focus that she never even heard Charles move, or get up and leave. Zoe re-crossed her dead leg in the other direction, still trying to read, when suddenly a shadow loomed over her. She reacted, letting out a tiny scream of surprise when a wrapped package was dropped on top of her book.

She looked up, covering her mouth to suppress her yelp, to find Charles glaring down at her.

"Don't skip it again. That's probably the most dangerous, stupid thing you could possibly do right now, in your position." He growled, the customary flat softness to his voice missing.

Shocked, Zoe glanced back down to find a turkey submarine sandwich sitting in her lap. Her favorite.

"Umm… okay. Sorry. But uh…how did you know?"

His irritation subsided, and he wandered over to his coffee pot, shrugging.

"Only the same way I know that your full name is Zoe Marie Warwick, twenty-six years old, originally from Framingham, Massachusetts. You are, ah, five feet four inches tall, you weigh a hundred and fifty two pounds, and you're far sighted with an astigmatism, for which you wear Acuvue contact lenses. Your mother's name is Sandra Roselynn Warwick, her maiden name being Benoint, and your father's name is Allen Peter Warwick. Married thirty-one years, currently living in Atoka, Oklahoma, with their two cats and a dog. You have an older brother, Ryan Allen Warwick, whom, ah, you all consider to be the black sheep of the family, and you have lost contact with him, even though you two always got along as kids. You attended Harvard Law School, graduating second to top of your class. You have an AB positive blood type, and a severe allergy to valium. You own a studio apartment downtown, and your best friend Melinda has left seventeen messages on your answering machine today alone to tell you about something her fiancé Mike did."

As hard as Zoe tried to be angry with Charles for invading her privacy, she could only gawk at his back and feel wonderment for the man.

"But…how…why?" She stumbled, trying to form words.

He looked at her over his shoulder.

"Did you really think I was just going to hire someone off the streets that claimed they worked for Crystal Mountain? If that happened, Miss Warwick, your position would be filled a hundred times over and Mordhaus would be overrun with crazed Dethklok fans in expensive suits." He explained casually. She nodded slowly, letting the sheer volume of what Charles knew about her sink in.

The coffee pot gurgled to life and began to drip brown liquid into its glass base, for which Zoe was extremely grateful. Charles couldn't stifle the yawn that overcame him, and he rolled his shoulders.

"Now. Eat the, ah, sandwich. You can't possibly function on an empty stomach. Even Nathan knows that."

And so Zoe did as she was told, and that was that.

Now, here she was, worn out but exuberantly on her way through the last dossier. After that, one more binder, and she was done. Charles was impressed. He had already worked a compliment on her ability to speed read and retain the information at hand into the small moments where he flexed his vocal chords between long bouts of comfortable silence.

As dusk faded into night, Zoe stretched on Charles' office couch, trying to find a position where her whole body didn't feel like she had been sitting still for forty-eight hours. Suddenly Charles breezed back into his quarters, with Toki hot on his heels.

"Sos, yous ams really goings out with us tonights?" The Norwegian bounced on the balls of his feet, excitement plain on his face.

"Yes, Toki, I'm really going out with you tonight. Upscale or rough joint this time?"

From down the hall, Murderface yelled something that sounded like "roughescht, dirtiescht, schluttishet joint in the whole damn schity," but it was garbled by the echo and his lisp. Zoe giggled- that was when Toki noticed her. He grinned.

"Oh, hi's, there! Erm…You ams Zoe, right? Charles, ams Zoe's comesings with us tonights?"

Zoe glanced at her boss, exasperated and needing a break. But there was no trace of compassion in his stern face. There never was.

"No, Toki, Miss Warwick's got a lot of work to do still, right?" He looked down his nose at the disorganized array, and raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Uhm…yes. I do. Sorry, Toki. Maybe some other time." She murmured, wishing for nothing more than a stiff drink right then and there.

Toki's bottom lip jutted out, and he pouted, but then shook his head.

"Aw, okays. If yous gots the works to do, goes ahead and do's it." He sulked, waiting for Charles to don his black overcoat and gloves.

Toki waved his goodbye, and then darted out the door. Charles wound a scarf around his neck and glanced over at the heap on the couch.

"Just remember to turn the coffee pot off, the lights out, and leave everything on my desk when you're finished. _Neatly_," he stressed, eyeing the mess once again with disdain. "G'night," he added informally, shutting the door behind him.

Zoe could hear the group begin their trek through Mordhaus to get to whatever mode of transportation they planned on taking, and Charles' usually monotone voice was lilting when he asked, "So, boys, what are we planning tonight?"

And Zoe returned to her studies, pretending that the people she read about were keeping her company through the long lonely hours of the night, when she did more questioning of her own motives than any real learning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Day three was Sunday.

Zoe trudged darkly into Charles' office slightly after 9 am. Her groundwork for being his assistant finally laid, she hoped he wouldn't ask her any questions too soon about what she had read- before he'd wandered in at 4 am, a tad tipsy, she'd made copies of what she deemed "forgettable" material. Then, ignoring her bosses' inebriated state, she quietly laid her study materials on his desk, and practically dragged herself to her room, thanking whatever ran the universe that there was nobody else sharing her chamber yet. She barely made it to the cot before she was passed out cold.

Needless to say, five hours of sleep after forty-eight hours of grueling brain torture did nothing to help her mental fog, so she nearly fell flat on her face when tripping over the extension cord that ran from a cleverly concealed wall outlet to a vacuum cleaner, which was loudly slurping up the dirt on the floor.

It took Zoe's muddled mind a moment to process that the only two people in the room were herself and the cleaning Klokateer. Mr. Ofdensen was completely missing from the scene.

Briefly Zoe wondered if this meant she had the day off, but then kicked herself. It was highly unlikely, after all Charles had told her, that he would ever give her a day off, let alone without telling her. So, using her abnormally short fused temper as fuel, she summoned the nerve to tap the Klokateer on the shoulder. It was another female, anyway.

The Klokateer turned around quickly, her body language reading as startled, even though she wore the customary hood. She shut off the vacuum cleaner at once, and Zoe cleared her throat.

"Uhm…good morning….do you know where Mr. Ofdensen is today?" She said, nerves jumpy in the base of her skull. The Klokateer shook her head.

"Sorry, I don't have a clue."

"Well…do you know if he left any notes or anything?" Zoe was not looking forward to wandering Mordhaus until she found someone who could tell her what she was supposed to do.

The Klokateer shrugged her broad shoulders.

"Look, I just clean up around here. Good luck finding him, though."

Sighing, Zoe muttered a "thanks" and scanned her boss's desk for any signs of a job to do, but finding nothing, her shoulders slumped. She sat down in his chair, swinging her feet and twiddling her thumbs nervously. The cleaning crew member just looked at her, as if to say, "anyone who sits there unauthorized is usually killed." There she stayed for a good twenty minutes, and would've stayed longer, but when the vacuum cleaner malfunctioned and the maid was shocked to death, she used the well-hidden intercom to nervously call for a member or two of the casualty clean-up crew to come fix the problem. Any other time, this would've scared her out of her wits, but she was just too tired to care. It had been an accident, anyway. There was nothing she could do about it. Before the other Klokateers could arrive, however, she hauled herself up and out of Charles' chair, and was out the door, just looking for something to occupy herself with. Zoe dragged her feet as she lazily wandered down the hall.

And then another hall.

And then another.

She didn't know what time it was, and didn't care. All she knew was she still had the mental willpower to soak up how to get from one place to another in Mordhaus on her own, and did so without putting much thought into it. Looking down at the floor as she mindlessly flitted about the monstrous house, the thought of returning to Charles' office crossed her mind, but was suddenly knocked out of her, along with the wind, as she ran headfirst into what felt like a brick wall.

Dazed, Zoe landed on the floor on her rump before it registered that walls didn't usually say "ouch" in response to a human collision.

Nathan Explosion looked down at her, his green eyes flickering between the pages of his book and the spectacle before him. Shoving a finger between the pages of his latest read, he grunted, holding out a hand.

Zoe grabbed the frontman's massive mitt, and hauled herself to her feet. She dusted herself off, and Nathan eyed her curiously.

"I'm so sorry, Nathan. I should have been looking where I was going." Heat flushed her cheeks. He shrugged.

"S'okay, I guess. Hey, aren't you, uh, supposed to be studying or something?" He asked, only half of him caring about the answer. The other half wanted to go back to being a bookworm.

"I finished early this morning." She answered, feeling some of the tension break. Nathan's brows rose in amazement.

"Wow, all of that stuff? That's, uh, that's a lot. You're pretty fast." Part of him marveled at how fast of a reader she was- the other half was just noticing how utterly tiny she looked from his perspective. It fascinated him. She reminded him of a blade of grass next to a full grown oak tree.

And just like that, she had someone to talk to. Without Charles' iron fist hanging over her head, she suddenly felt a little more like her old self, and smiled at the bespectacled man broadly.

"Could've done it faster but I had to make sure I memorized it all. So…whatcha reading?"

Nathan held the book out for her to see, and she smiled again.

"Nice. Hemmingway was always a favorite of mine."

Nathan nodded, a shred of enthusiasm hanging about him.

"Yeah. He's uh…he's pretty brutal." He mused, wondering what the hell Ofdensen thought she could do to actually _assist_ him, when she seemed so…normal.

A thought crossed the back of his mind that made him shiver like whenever he considered the idea of consciously trying to make a baby. Refusing to confront such a hideous image, he shook his head and blinked a couple times. Zoe ignored his strange behavior, relatively terrified of his sheer size and muscle mass.

"So, Nathan, do you happen to know where Mr. Ofdensen is right now?" She experienced a mixture of hope that he would cure her boredom, and depression at knowing he would be her employer for a long time coming, provided she didn't die waiting to take over her own contracts. She was growing less fond of him with every second she had to spend in his presence. Sure, he was an amazing CFO and general manager, but he was far too stale for her taste in company.

To her discouragement, Nathan shook his head again.

"No, I don't know. Usually he's uh, in his office. If he's not there, then he's…he's…somewhere, I guess."

Zoe sagged in her tracks and pocketed her hands.

"Alright. Thanks anyway, Nathan. Nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too."

They began to part ways. Nathan reopened his book when she had walked past him, but noticed the black paint on his thumbnail was chipped, and not for the first time that day. He turned abruptly, trying to remember the new assistant manager's name.

"Uh…uh…Zoe!" He barked, proud of himself for recalling it before she rounded the corner. She looked over her shoulder.

"Yes, Nathan?" A tickle of excitement grew in her chest- would someone finally ask her to do something useful? After all, she hadn't studied in college to become someone else's student or secretary.

He held out his hand awkwardly, trying not to look un-metal.

"Uh…Are you any good at like, painting nails?" He wouldn't look at her, cringing at how odd the question sounded. She approached him, however, and wasn't laughing. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Zoe's disappointment in being asked to do something so mundane was quickly transformed into a different feeling. Someone needed her to do something halfway familiar. And it pleased her in a sort of quirky little way that Nathan, so big and fearsome, would ask someone like her for help.

She took his hand in hers gently and examined the nails.

"They're all about ready to chip and peel. Who painted these?"

He shrugged.

"Charles usually gets someone to do it." He muttered.

Girlish determination settled in, and Zoe grinned.

"Well, Charles isn't here, and I've got nothing better to do… I think… so why don't I help you out? If you've got the polish and some remover, I can fix those up for you." Nathan nodded.

"Yeah, I've got some. C'mon."

Minutes later, the odd-looking duo was seated on the giant couch in the main room, Zoe sitting crosslegged due to her choice of a pantsuit that day, holding the most metal frontman's hand delicately in her own as she rubbed away the black polish from his nails with a young woman's level of expertise.

The whole process took about half an hour, and during that time, they found enough to talk about to keep them both thoroughly entertained, from music to childhood, and a long debate over Shakespeare. In fact, when a limping Charles Ofdensen slipped past the door unseen, he found Nathan to be laughing and smiling openly with his assistant, both using goofy voices to declaim Othello by heart. He was surprised, to say the least. He'd half expected her to stay in her room all day or park herself firmly in his office, but she had done what she was actually supposed to do, which was to do what was needed of her and within her range of capabilities in his absence. Part of him was beginning to wonder if she might work out as his assistant after all. She seemed to at least keep one of his boys well-entertained and out of trouble- a practical Godsend to him.

And then the next wave of searing pain hit him, and he continued his off-kilter ascent higher into his own realm in Mordhaus. As soon as he reached his office, he shut the door, panting and forcing himself to get just far enough to sink into his chair. He was exhausted and dizzy, and fought to keep himself conscious as the pain crashed into him harder.

But he had won, in the end, which made it all worthwhile.

Hissing through clenched teeth, Charles procured a small first-aid kit from the lower left hand drawer in his desk. He picked up his bum leg and rested it on the desktop, and placed the bit in his mouth that he kept handy for just such occasions. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he closed his eyes and expertly popped his knee back into joint.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he fought back a sharp scream, but the throb receded to a dull ache shortly thereafter, and he relaxed as best he could. He sighed- he would have thought he'd be used to this by now, but it never got any easier or less sickening to have to do it. He hated having an Achilles heel that was actually his knee. But at least he had the rest of his health. Mostly.

Mechanically and numbly Charles splinted his own leg, and then lowered it to the ground as gently as possible. He stretched, feeling all his other, less damaged joints pop and crack. He needed an aspirin and he needed it quickly. Dry swallowing two from the first-aid kit, he waited until they went down, and then tipped his head back, closing his eyes to the world for just a moment. Images of flashing steel and black canvas danced under his eyelids, but he could not give into sleep. It was barely even one in the afternoon.

He was asleep before he could stop himself.

Meanwhile, more members of Dethklok had personally weaseled their way into Zoe's day plans, and she was now trying to convince a pouting Swede that she had no talent for Guitar Hero whatsoever. He was persistent, though, and eventually, the thought of playing sounded, at the very least, tempting. Nathan was nursing his novel once again, and had all but left the conversation, so she gave in, preparing for certain defeat.

The day waned as night waxed, and she had a sickening feeling of a lack of accomplishment that bit through her fun. When at last Zoe excused herself from Dethklok's now-complete company (desperately wanting to escape Murderface's lengthy speech on the mechanics of playing bass with his cock), she decided to make one last trip to Charles' office to see if he had ever returned.

When she found him, sprawled out in his chair and sound asleep, she was torn between embarrassment and a feeling akin to relief. If she had been in trouble, the day was over now, and he had never called for her presence, so she figured she was in the clear. Still, it felt very strange to see her boss of a total of three days, and the man who had earned himself the title of "robot" worldwide, so very vulnerable.

Nonetheless, her maternal instinct chose that moment to kick in, when she saw the dark circles under his eyes, the suspicious first aid kit out on the desk (of what he used it for, there was no trace), and watched him try to achieve a comfortable position from deep within the world of slumber. It was familiar. It was how her older brother used to look after martial arts lessons, when he sank into the living room chair as a teenager and promptly fell asleep. This reckoning hit her hard, but she pushed it away as quickly as it had come. Ryan was all but dead to her, now.

She sighed- she'd always chided herself for her sudden urges to mother people; it was unhealthy and unprofessional- and quietly moved over to Charles, carefully loosening his tie and removing his glasses. She folded and placed them gently on the desk where he could easily reach them, should he even wake before dawn. Then she went over to his cabinet, pulled out his overcoat, and draped it over his loose figure.

She turned out the lights and shut his door quietly, returning now to her room for some much needed rest. She was sure Charles would make her work extra hard in the morning to make up for a day lost, so she forced herself to fall into as deep and dreamless a sleep as possible.

Only, she did dream, and in her dreams, she was the mother hen once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Time rolled on for Zoe, and everything began to fall into place. Thought she wasn't sure she'd _ever_ fully become accustomed to life in Mordhaus, it wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be. The food was little more than gruel, but decent enough to consume. She was still alone in her own room- it seemed like everyone else had to share, and she waited with bated breath to see if anyone would ever take up residence on the empty cot that adorned the other edge of the small space. Yet, no one came, for which she was both grateful and disappointed. But, it wasn't so bad when she weighed her steadily improving job against it.

Ever since the dawn of day four of her training, when a very stiff-limbed Charles Foster Ofdensen had woken in his office chair, glasses neatly folded and his own coat draped over him, he had been more talkative with her. Not so much less icy, as he tended to be more verbal when he was icy- and not just all pre-rehearsed speeches, either. There was a sudden and almost unnerving hint of curiosity in his voice- as though he couldn't fathom such a simple act of human kindness had been spent on him.

He knew it had been her- who else would have done such a thing? The only other person he could think of would be Toki, or maybe Nathan if he was in a really good mood, but neither man would have the tact or even the ability to be stealthy and gentle enough to not wake him. He couldn't imagine a Klokateer overstepping like that, either. But such a blatant wreckage of professional protocol was almost pleasant, in a way. It made him feel a little more alive, deep down, which was usually a sensation he only felt through pain.

The camaraderie between the two of them steadily increased. Neither could call the other friend, but neither could they call each other foes. Charles was slightly amused at the breech in his own, nearly impenetrable walls- he'd never formed such a close relationship with his assistant before, and doubted he ever would again, after this one died. It was inevitable, he knew. They all did, and they all always would, for whatever cosmic reason. Typically such a shirking of his careful self-guarding would have bothered him, but it was not so much a care for Zoe's life or existence as it was a nice change to just have someone to chat with, instead of the dead space he was usually met with between meetings and outbursts.

And she was fervently in love with her work, a trait which kept him entertained. She could drown in paperwork and not care, for all her exuberance and elation. Over the course of the next few days, the routine would become familiar, yet differed each time. Zoe would arrive promptly at 9; she would bid him good morning, and he would ask absently if she slept well. He never remembered her replies, and rarely answered the same question with more than a shrug of his own shoulders, but the small talk ate up the most boring part of the morning.

From 9 to 12 she would aid him in whatever he was doing at the time- sifting through legalities, scheduling interviews, booking shows, charting profits for the next fiscal year- this was what she had lived for since she was a pre-teen. It puzzled her, it intrigued her, and it all came naturally to her. Usually Charles just kept the assistants around to write down his little brainstorms or to tell other gears to perform various tasks, but this one actually _worked_. And did it very, very well.

At 12, they would break for lunch. Never again did Zoe skip eating- Charles was dead serious about personal health matters, insisting she was already close to skin and bones. He began to offer her to dine with him instead of with the other Klokateers, and immediately she was receiving hot, delicious meals direct from Jean-Pierre. Occasionally she would decline to eat with him, instead slipping away to take her lunch with a member or two of the band, and then returning as soon as her wristwatch read 1 pm.

But when she did choose to dine with Charles at lunch, it was perhaps the most evidence she could have collected to prove his often-questioned humanity. He wasn't exactly jovial over food, but they sat together in his office and chatted about Dethklok, what the boys were up to, death metal in general, the whole music industry…their conversations would then end up spanning several topics, from ancient history to modern weaponry. It was always very formal- no cracked jokes, no silliness at all- but it was absorbing, and the most fun she ever witnessed her employer having. He was always very relaxed during this period, even so much as slouching a little in his chair and, when in rare form, propping his feet up on the desk. That was when Zoe first became aware of the stiffness in his right knee, but said nothing. It wasn't her place. The Klokateer's code of conduct had taught her that.

Still, a whiney voice in the back of her mind told her to screw the code, and just _ask_ him what was wrong, like any normal person would. And yet, she kept silent. She couldn't jeopardize what she had.

But she began to keep a weather eye for anything that could potentially hurt or injure that said knee, such as open desk drawers or any possible mobility hazards.

From 1 to 5 she was a student to Charles' whim- whatever he decided to teach that day would be her mental playground. Unless there was something unfamiliar happening- a Dethklok crisis, a meeting with an important client- she was confined to her studies during these hours, and only Charles had the power to tell her it was time to stop. One day he would give her a lesson in building profit projections from an album that wasn't even in production yet- the next, he would task her to collect information on the previous lives of various Klokateers, giving her an up on spying and the undying consumer's race. And then there _were_ those all important Dethklok crises.

If she couldn't handle those moments, he knew he had better reassign the job. But even in the face of the unfortunate but commonplace deaths of several Klokateers every couple of days, she remained steadfast. Toki ran out of candy- he had more of his favorite kinds within the hour, so long as he _promised_ not to eat it all in one shot. Upon learning of his diabetes problem, Zoe didn't even wait for an order from her boss- she took matters into her own hands, much to the relief of the Norwegian's bandmates. She rationed his candy daily, making sure to keep his supply well stocked, but under lock and key.

Pickles' drug dealer went missing for a few days- it was something even Charles had a hard time addressing when the matter of the drummer's drug use surfaced. Too many hazy college memories for him to deal with it properly-besides, it was unhealthy. During these few days, of course, Pickles' seemingly endless stash ran dry, and he began to suffer withdrawal. This time, instead of listening to Charles and staying out of it, Zoe ignored her boss (although inside, she was rightly overwrought with fear of being let go for days after) and stayed up with Pickles through the worst of it, secretly pulling him into her matronly embrace behind the closed door of his bedroom and stroking what was left of his hair while he waited for the DT's to pass. Eventually, when the fits of puking and hallucination ended, Zoe even got Pickles' mind off of his situation by making a mix CD of 80s and early 90s hits and singing along with him, albeit offkey.

Murderface became a pet project of Zoe's; she didn't try to fix him, but she paid attention to him when she got over his lisp and crude way of expressing himself. If he cut himself, she chastised him like a small child, but bandaged him up nonetheless, her years as a Girl Scout kicking in and coming in handy, for once. She would spend time letting him teach her about the histories of some of his favorite weapons and torture devices- she found it morbidly mesmerizing, surprisingly. Generally Murderface didn't have the sudden and major problems the rest of the band did, but Zoe could see that he was the one that needed looking after, perhaps more than the rest of them. She even managed to summon the courage to speak to the disfigured Jean-Pierre in person, who took a liking to her and lent her time in his kitchen uninterrupted, where she found a free moment to bake a batch of "murder cookies"- really just double chocolate chip cookies with black icing in an "X" on the top. He defamed her in front of the others when she gave them to him, but before she left he shot a grateful gaze in her direction, and she winked, making his knees wobble. He turned away before anyone could see him blush, however. After all, it wasn't every day that a woman actually paid attention to him.

Nathan went on another tangent about his intelligence level being far too diminutive, citing his failed attempts at earning his GED to her one evening. She offered to tutor him, and that became an ongoing project whenever she had a moment of time to herself. He fared well under her tutelage, though he knew he wasn't quite ready to earn his diploma just yet.

Skwisgaar suffered perhaps the most amusing crisis during that week that Charles had ever witnessed of the boys, in all his years. He wouldn't have touched this one himself if he had a ten foot pole, but his new assistant took it in stride. He had gone out to a party and gone skinny dipping in a heavily chlorinated pool…temporarily forgetting he was blonde.

He poured himself into Mordhaus in a frenzy at 5 in the morning, desperately trying to hide his bright green locks under an uncharacteristic hoodie. Luckily, Zoe had been awake, finishing some paperwork Charles had left behind in order to go to bed. She figured since she characteristically rose early, she might as well finish it for him, but upon running into a startled and frantic Swede in the hall, she had only laughed and told him to go rinse off, she'd help him in just a moment.

When Charles entered the expansive kitchen around 7 to retrieve more coffee for his coffee pot, he found an array of hair dryers, shampoos, conditioners, and chopped up lemons on one of the countertops, and Zoe was running her fingers through the Swede's- once again- golden hair. She brushed it out until it dried to a fluffy shine, and Charles fought back a grin at the look of pampered ecstasy on Skwisgaar's face.

"So, ah, Skwisgaar," he needed to let this one out, or he would die of prudishness, "I see it's spa day…old Scandinavian tradition?"

Much to his deflation, Skwisgaar merely opened one pale eye, looked at him, and murmured, "_Ja_, is metal."

And so it went. Zoe couldn't claim acceptance just yet, but Charles didn't mind her taking over and attending to some of the more trivial aspects of the band's life. In fact, they'd been getting into much less trouble since she'd started mothering them- admittedly still just enough trouble to keep him busy, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. He also didn't mind her dealing with some of the larger problems, like legitimate booking conflicts, intra-band conflict, and so on.

He had to admit, she was more machine than he was. Not even a full two weeks on the job, and she was a regular sponge, simply sopping up all the information being thrown at her and storing it away for future use. He secretly wished he had that much talent for the job. But there were still so many things he had to teach her, and time was wearing thin.

Sunday came again too soon. The tenth day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_"Wear comfortable shoes. Wait for instructions." _Was all the little, slightly wrinkled paper said. Zoe felt her stomach churning, and swallowed heavily. Did her boss always have to make Sundays so difficult?

She crumpled the note in her hand after scanning the flawless script once again, tossing it into the wastebasket underhanded. Groaning as she watched the second hand move like a snail over the face of her wristwatch, she was about to flop back into bed when the heavy knock came at her door.

She wasn't prepared for what would come next.

* * *

Dethklok sat around the medieval dining table, slowly trying to shake off a bad night's sleep with munchies of all kinds, from Belgian waffles (topped with very metal blackberries, of course) to Toki's third bowl of "Brutal Runes" already that morning. A Klokateer who was replacing a lightbulb in the corner of the room suddenly fell off their stepladder and smashed their skull apart on the stone floor. The one who had been holding the ladder took a step, slipped in the blood, and fell out the window, crushing two others on ground level when they finally connected with a solid surface again.

Nathan was the one to speak first, and shrugged his question into existence. It was a pretty good morning, after all. Might as well ask.

"So, uh... what do you guys think of Zoe?" He couldn't help but be curious. She was the fire to Ofdensen's ice- the sun to his moon. After dealing with his offhandedness and disaffection for so long, it was odd to have someone with so much life and vivacity attending to them. Fondly, he remembered Rebecca, when she had been in a good mood- which was all of once, the entire time they dated.

Without thinking, Murderface blurted out, "Oh, sche's great!" And then quickly shut his mouth, the whole table tuning to look at him.

"I mean, ah, sche's okay, I guessch. For a, you know. A chickh." He grumbled, sinking lower in his seat.

The table murmured their individual agreements, trying to be as distant as possible, until Toki loudly sipped the remaining milk from his bowl.

"Wells, I's thinkings that Zoe ams perfects! She ams the prettiests, nicest assistestant Charles is ever's had!"

"Well, I hope she's the best lookin, dood. The rest 'ave all been guys."

"Yeah. With masks." Nathan rumbled, stating the obvious.

"Hell, Ofdensen coulda had a squid in a dress as an assistant dis time and it woulda been eas'er on the eyes."

"Buts still."

Again, quiet assents from all around. Egged on by the uninterested mumbling, Toki really started dreaming, fueled by sugar and childhood fantasies that didn't grow up with his body.

"Woulds ams be greats ifs Ofdensens marrieds Zoe?" He spewed, causing Nathan to choke on his coffee. The rest of the table grew silent, seriously thinking this over. Pickles was the only one who seemed to be even partially on board with the Norwegian, as the rest began to look violently ill.

"Meybe, dood. It'd be intrestin', that's fer sure. Feck, though, I think it's 'bout time the Chief got laid, though. It'd be good fer 'im." He grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Toki, who missed the generalized innuendo entirely.

Meanwhile, Nathan was still trying to recover from inhaling coffee that was blacker than the blackest black, but other things besides his lungs were burning- mainly his frontal lobe.

"Uggh," he moaned, setting his mug down and staring straight ahead with wide, unseeing green eyes, "Didn't…uh...ungh...didn't want to think about that…."

Toki continued to rattle off his newest ideal fantasy world to the drummer, the only one actually listening. Skwisgaar just shrugged and continued to finger imaginary guitar strings, and Murderface tuned out, playing with his butter knife and leaving huge, uneven digs in the table's surface.

"Ands, whats if theys has childs with each others?" He gushed, clapping his hands together excitedly. "We's coulds be like the unkshules, Pickle! It's'd be better den being de fathers, likes last time."

Nathan paled, and and looked at Pickles helplessly, who clamped a hand over Toki's mouth without looking in his direction. The Norwegian continued to mumble incoherent sentences behind his makeshift, fleshy gag, simply raising an eyebrow at everyone else and wondering why they looked so mortified.

"Cannot…process…Ofdensen…and sex…" The singer wheezed, trying not to vomit. Pickles chortled with laughter.

"What has been seen cannot be unseen, dood!" He chuckled good naturedly, ripping a sausage patty apart in his teeth.

Oh, how Nathan wished Pickles was wrong.

* * *

The two Klokateers guided an extremely jumpy lawyer through the absolute bowels of Mordhaus. This was where the vermin nested, where dead bodies could lay for weeks and go unnoticed. She tried to tell herself she was fine, that she was in no danger, but she couldn't make herself believe it.

Because, frankly, there wasn't a lick of truth to it at all.

Finally the three-gear procession reached where it was going- a thick set of steel doors. The Klokateers flanked her, and pulled them open.

When her eyes adjusted to the surprisingly bright light, Zoe timidly stepped inside the wide room, her dark eyes darting back and forth nervously. Where was Charles?

She sensed movement in the corner of her eye, and flinched. It was like he had appeared out of nowhere. He loosened his trademark red tie as he circled around in front of her.

"Welcome to hell, Miss Warwick. This is where some of the most important lessons I have to teach you will be, ah, well…taught." "He slipped his tie out from under his collar and tossed it carelessly aside, and then reached up to unbutton his top collar button.

Panic flared up in her- just what kind of lessons did he mean? But still, she wordlessly followed him to a black gymnastics floor mat, where he continued to put himself in various states of undress, sending her into various states of alarm.

Charles handed his suit coat to a waiting Klokateer, and then unhitched his cuff links and handed those off, too. Unbuttoning and rolling up his starched white sleeves, he looked more like a typical business man just getting off work, rather than the behind the scenes ruler of one of the world's biggest empires.

He breathed deeply for a moment, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, before he spoke.

"I'm, ah, going to teach you self defense, and then, should you pass the Klokateer training seminar test, we'll work on attack strategies."

Zoe was dumbstruck. She felt her mind go as numb as her body. She was a lawyer, for God's sake! Why should she have to learn archaic hand to hand combat skills as part of the job?

As though he could read her thoughts, Charles motioned a Klokateer closer, assuming a sturdy stance on the mat.

"Don't question it, Miss Warwick. Just do as I do, and do as I say, and someday, if you live that long, you'll see why we're going to try this." Suddenly, a thought jogged her mind into action.

"Wait, wait! Is this another one of those times where you would tell me not to punch people?"

Charles couldn't hold back the chuckle.

"Ahm…no, I think you're safe on that one this time- that is, ah, if you can even touch me."

Fear made a quaking mess out of her just seconds after he spoke. He was scaring her half to death, of that, she was certain. Her legs turned to Jello, and she felt like she could almost dissolve into a puddle of goo on the mat. Charles' first instinct was to utilize her very visible fear against her, but then he remembered he was not dealing with the typical beast of burden. No, this was not a mosh-pit hardened wanna-be wrestler, but a fragile young woman. For a split second, he was unsure if he was doing the right thing by introducing her to this world. Surely he could bend the rules, even get her completely off the hook for the Klokateer training seminar. But he didn't want to, and he knew he shouldn't have to, and so he grabbed her by the elbows, bringing her arms up into position.

Even next to him, short as he was, she looked dwarfed and introverted, and again, something told him this wasn't the right course of action. But he was trapped in a rare moment of vanity, and wanted to show off his abilities to someone who might actually appreciate them.

"Match my stance." He commanded, his voice collected, his thoughts suddenly still and clear. With all the grace of a rhinoceros in a stampede, she mimicked her teacher. He showed her how to arrange her arms and hands, making small physical adjustments to her form wherever he felt they were necessary. Finally, he coaxed her unrelentingly stubborn body into form.

"Now. It's very simple. If I punch here," and here he threw a slow motion jab that traveled lazily in a line from his right to her right, "what would you do in this position to stop me?"

Zoe forced herself to try to analyze the situation, and it dawned on her to picture it all like a human-sized game of chess. That way, she could only be captured and checkmated, not killed or maimed. It made it easier for her to focus through her nerves. She suddenly saw an opening, and brushed Charles' arm out of the way with her forearm. He nodded.

"Good. And if I threw one here?" He repeated the same motion with his left hand, and Zoe brushed him away again.

"Alright. Now. Let's practice that for a moment." As they practiced the very simple maneuver, Charles studied her movements, and verbally corrected her where he could, demonstrating how much force to exert for maximum push, where to connect with the arm, when to connect with the arm, and how to swing it out farther and catch her opponent off balance.

He slyly made his motions quicker, forcing Zoe to react faster. She was beginning to enjoy herself, oddly- he made her feel dangerous and unruly. She watched her mentor's movements as they increased yet again in speed, until he suddenly stepped forward and aimed a close range punch at her face.

Zoe squinted her eyes shut and a small noise of fear escaped her trembling lips, waiting for the blow to connect, but it never did. She opened one eye, and then the other, finding Charles' fist to have stopped mere fractions of an inch from her chin. He was giving her an odd, lopsided gaze, his head cocked to the side like a dog.

What interested him in that moment were the depths from which such a descriptive word would have come from in his mind. For when he saw his charge scrunch her nose and squeak like a mouse, the only word that came to mind was "cute." He pushed it away, ignoring his reaction to something that obviously did not belong on a battlefield, and sighed dryly.

"We're, ah, going to have to work on that."

He beckoned to the Klokateer, positioning his hooded crash test dummy just so, and moved Zoe out of the way so she could watch. He demonstrated more moves, the Klokateer obviously being a seasoned sparring partner of his, who moved quickly to block or evade Charles' fist in several different scenarios. Zoe watched with a dark absorption, until it was time to attempt it again for herself.

She fared better this time, having seen the maneuver she was supposed to make, and was only grazed by Charles' fist once. Next, he taught her how to evade and block an uppercut, but unfortunately for Zoe, she miscalculated his speed on one of the first practice rounds, and he caught her square in the jaw with quite a bit of force.

She saw stars as her teeth were wrenched through her skull and fell out of her eye sockets. At least, that's what it felt like. She was lightheaded, and there was blood in her mouth.

Zoe stumbled, falling forward into a typically neutral Charles, who caught her and eased her down to the mat. He held her head up so she wouldn't choke if the bleeding didn't stop or if she vomited, and she struggled to focus her blurry vision.

"Can you hear me?" He questioned, rather surprised at himself. He knew he was going to hit her, but he didn't think it would be with that much force. Obviously he needed to practice better self-restraint; or not, as that devious side of him nodded in appreciation.

"Mm hmm," she mumbled, not opening her mouth fully. Her teeth were stained red from her blood, and she spit onto the mat.

Charles sent probing hands under her jaw, up her cheekbones, and then parted her lips forcibly with his fingers and checked inside her mouth. He then wiped his hand on his pants. No lasting damage would occur.

"You'll be fine. The blood's just because you, ah, bit your tongue, that's all. Let this be a reminder to you to get out of the way next time." He chastised, ever the master.

Zoe opened her eyes all the way, and Charles helped her sit up. He motioned to the Klokateers waiting at the door, who started forward.

"I think we're done for the day. Six-eighty-six, take her back to her ro-" He was cut off, suddenly, by something he didn't think would ever happen. Something that had never happened before from someone beneath his level. Charles had been kneeling close to her, and then all of a sudden, he was rocked backwards, almost tipping over, not from sheer force, but from his own surprise.

Zoe had socked him in the mouth as hard as she could.

"That's for hitting a girl," she spat, struggling to stand up and wavering when she managed a wide stance, her arms windmilling comically as her entire body heaved to and fro with airless vertigo.

Zoe wiped at the blood on her lips with the back of her hand absently, her thick auburn hair lank from sweat. While the blood distracted her, however, Charles swung a leg around and caught her in the back of her knees, flooring her and almost smashing her face into the mat. He grabbed her by her t-shirt collar, though, just in time. Zoe breathed out heavily, glaring up at him from in between wet locks of loose hair.

"That's for hitting your boss." He retorted, but there was no threat to her job in those words.

If she had remained conscious after that, she would've been met with a rare and almost scary sight:

Charles smiled at her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Days eleven, twelve, and thirteen were strictly filled with defensive combat training. When Charles was too busy to teach Zoe, he had Klokateers 3,471 and 2,447, his usual sparring partners, do it for him. She spent hours in the "hole," as they called it, meditating, practicing, and becoming intimate with the floor whenever a new move was introduced. Unlike Charles, the Klokateers he had chosen to be her mentors had no tact or skill when it came to instruction.

Charles tried to keep his distance as much as possible, those days, both physically and emotionally. It had dawned on him that he was growing attached to his assistant in an "if you disappeared I'd be severely indisposed" sort of way, and that nagged at him, bothering him until he developed a tension headache. Attachment was just an obstacle in his industry, and he personally knew that all too well. In the early days, he still ruled his empire with all the control and power of an experienced warrior-king, but he'd found himself trying to develop intra-office connections, which were quickly trashed. Death followed him-them, really- wherever they went. Eventually the situation got the best of him, and he simply gave up trying, and gave up caring, easily adopting the cold face the world had come to worship.

Another thing that bothered him was that he was acutely aware that his boys were talking about him. _Gossiping_, really. About him and the girl. It was absurd. He knew it, and they knew it, but still they persisted to whisper to each other and whoever would listen that he was having…relations with her.

It had been far too long, he was far too old, and it was far too dangerous for him to even think of engaging in activity of that sort with anybody if he wanted to keep his mind focused on Dethklok. Besides, dating co-workers was strictly forbidden.

Reclining in his office chair and trying to exert enough willpower to overcome the ball of muscles that were aching in the back of his neck, his mind took a short vacation to his college years. He felt a fleeting smile cross his thinly set mouth- his bad-boy style had gotten him whoever he wanted, doing whatever he wanted, wherever and whenever he wanted it. He'd recently returned to casual clothes in the face of his nine month recovery and absence, a style he had been fond of back in the day, but it hadn't felt right. He was just too rigid and too much of a role model to five wild children trapped in men's bodies to pull it off anymore.

He'd kept one picture, since his days as a rebel, and took the time now to pull it out from its hiding place in his desk. The pocket sized photograph was slightly crumpled, slightly worn, and the marginally runny blue ball point pen printing on the bottom right corner of the paper read "September, 1994" in his neat penmanship.

Looking over the rim of his glasses at the image he held close to his face, he felt the overwhelming urge to lay his head down on the desk and just forget everything for a moment, but his pride wouldn't allow it. Even looking at the picture could be dangerous to his reputation if someone walked in who didn't need to know about it. Regardless, he couldn't make himself put it back in the drawer.

It was a picture of himself, much younger, while he was still enrolled at the university. He was sitting tall astride a sleek black Harley on the side of the road, his helmet tucked under one arm. He wore clingy, acid washed blue jeans with holes in the knees (which, he now admitted to himself, was probably one of the reasons his knees were hurting so bad lately, considering they had gotten ripped to shreds when he'd crashed one night, nearly snapping his neck and trashing the chrome and paint on his bike. He fixed it, though, as soon as he'd found the time), a black tour t-shirt that showed off his toned physique nicely, well-worn biker boots, a couple sterling silver skull rings, a thick chain around his neck with a Maltese cross dangling from it, fingerless leather gloves, and a much-loved leather bomber jacket. He wasn't sporting glasses- rather, in those days, he'd been partial to contact lenses. His chestnut hair was shaggier, and luscious locks of it framed his devilishly grinning face. In the photograph, he was proudly displaying the wristband from the concert he'd just come from- Metallica, Suicidal Tendencies, and Danzig.

The person who took the photograph was the girl he'd been going with at the time, and when Charles' realized he couldn't even remember her name, he chuckled bitterly, and carefully stashed the picture back in his desk. He had brought it from home (for, in case of needing a real escape, a place to hide, or to stash Dethklok, Charles had never sold off his apartment in the heart of the city, though he never went there anymore), when he had returned "from the dead", but he didn't quite know why. Now, though, it just brought memories of a more carefree time, long since forgotten.

When the door opened, he was hunched over his paperwork, signing off on the payroll with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Bitterness was clearly written on his face.

"Am I interrupting something?" Zoe murmured as she eased herself through the door, trying to be wary of her aching body and not to startle her boss. He shook his head, his hand instinctively leaving his own tender muscles to safeguard his personal image of fortitude. But she had already caught him.

"Headache?" She mused, not blaming in him in the slightest. He glanced up at her, debating whether or not to answer as he finished reviewing the payroll and started surveying that month's profits.

"Ah…you could say that, yeah." Suddenly he heard the rustle of fabric, and then sensed someone standing in front of him.

Charles wrenched his eyes from the amassed words and figures that were starting to run together, to find his assistant's hand outstretched, two Advil in her palm being offered to him. He took them gratefully, washing the pills down with a mouthful of coffee, and then returned to his work.

Zoe twirled a piece of her hair around her fingers, studying him as she sat down heavily in the lounge chair, glad to take the weight off her feet after a long day of getting beat up and knocked down, though frankly surprised she wasn't already being told to do something else. Her boss looked pale, tired, almost drawn…she felt sorry for him, in a way, being stuck in this office all the time he wasn't spending teaching her or dealing with Dethklok face to face. Though she loved her work, she secretly hoped she would never be as married to the job as he was. Then again, he wasn't complaining.

The silence dragged on. Zoe shifted and took up a very informal position in the chair, legs draped over one arm and head lolling against the other as she picked at the hem of her cool purple blouse. Eventually it occurred to Charles that she was still there, being quiet, but a curious distraction nonetheless.

"Did you need something, Miss Warwick?" He drawled, only half of him paying any attention to whether she replied or not.

"Sort of, sir. First of all, tomorrow's the day of the seminar, right? I just want to know what to expect. No one's told me anything." There. She finally had some of his attention. He leaned back, hands placed approximately where his kidneys sat, and cracked his spine into alignment before responding. Zoe flinched. He bit back a smirk.

"You don't need to, ah, worry about it until morning. Try not to lose any sleep over it, hmm?" He said offhandedly, as though it was no big deal, but she felt no less troubled by the secrecy. Still, she decided not to pursue it any farther.

"Second…I'm just curious, sir. If you don't mind my asking… how old _are_ you?"

Charles had already returned to his work, and was blindly pushing his glasses up his nose after they slid down and caused his vision to fisheye. Only the vaguely cordial part of him was paying her any mind at all, and his lips seemed to move without much thought.

"Thirty-eight." The scratch of an expensive gold accented pen added a sort of finality to this revelation for Zoe. He was certainly younger than she'd expected.

Zoe let this sink in, digesting the information and wondering how far she could go before he got steamed. The moments ticked by in silence until she pressed on.

"Ever been married?"

"No."

"Got any kids?"

"Yes. Five adults who can barely take care of themselves. You know them as Dethklok. Other than that, no."

"Want kids?"

"Not particularly." Zoe took a moment to search for more questions to ask him while he was in the state of mind to answer.

"Own a car?"

"Armored, custom Jaguar X-J6."

"Have any hobbies?" Finally, Charles realized what he was saying, and a slight redness crept into his cheeks. He looked up at her, near fuming.

"Is this going somewhere, Miss Warwick?" he hissed through gritted teeth, his pen digging into the palm of his hand.

"No. I just wondered." She said, blinking when her contact lens slipped slightly out of alignment.

"Then let's play twenty questions some other, ah, time. Like, never." He tried to force himself to breathe evenly. What could possibly have gotten into her? And, for that matter, what on earth had come over him? He was going to regret divulging personal information at some point in the future- he could just feel it.

"Sure. You're right, sir. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous about tomorrow." She sighed, rising to leave.

"Should I report to you as always, Mr. Ofdensen?" She whispered meekly. Charles thought for a moment, and figured he'd better tell her before someone else did in the morning.

"Yes. Dress, ah, casually tomorrow, though. And not business casual- just…normal, I suppose."

"Alright. Goodnight, Mr. Ofdensen." Zoe made her way to the door. Opening it, she was surprised when a softer voice caught her attention.

"If you must know, I, ah, play guitar as a hobby. Used to be in a band myself." He cast her a nearly bashful glance out of the corner of his eye, and she smiled warmly at him. Charles felt the tips of his ears heat up- they must've been turning red. He hated it when that happened. Thankfully, it didn't happen often.

"I'd like to hear it sometime." And with that, she was gone, the door shutting in her wake and leaving Charles alone with his work once again. He was able to keep his focus, but he felt a little better, taboo as it was.

Someone actually gave a damn.

* * *

Zoe was tucked in, tossing and turning in her fretful slumber when a drunk redhead tumbled into her bosses' office around one A.M. Charles was fighting waves of sleep, but Pickles engaged his mind and snapped him out of it, for but a minute.

"Mornin' 'Fdensen." He slurred, less inebriated than usual, but still quite out of it.

"Hello, Pickles. What I can I, ah, do for you, besides suggesting you lay off the liquor and get some sleep?" Charles straightened his tie, and Pickles suddenly looked smug.

"So's, I 'as just, like, y'know, wonderin' if you an' Zoe gots…gots a… thing goin' on, dood." He phased it as more of a statement than a question, but Charles deciphered the gist. He shook his head.

"Ah, no, no need to worry, Pickles. She's just my assistant." He murmured, bemusedly watching the drummer trying to stay conscious in his stupor. The drummer thought for a moment, chewing on his tongue in an effort to make words form.

"Aw, why nat, Chief?" He realized he was drooling, and wiped his mouth when Charles looked up at him sharply, all disaffected decorum temporarily forgotten.

"Excuse me?" He was shocked, to say the least.

"Ya should ask 'er out, dood! Or at least get 'er drunk and get yerself some tail. I mean, c'mon, Chief. Y'gotta admit, she's pretty hot…uh…well…sorta pretty…if ya squint… fer the cor…corp…lawyer type." Pickles' eyes became half lidded, and Charles just had the feeling the drummer was fantasizing. He shook his head, being certain to keep his gaze above the redhead's waist. That was an eyeful he didn't need at the moment- or ever again, really.

"I, ah, hadn't noticed."

Immediately, his subconscious lie registered consciously. It was the first time he'd stopped to think about it, in all reality, though he had noticed her rather unconventional looks right off the bat. Big brown eyes, wide, smiling lips, lightly dusted with freckles just barely visible in the light, a full, round, almost heart shaped face…all together, it wasn't really that bad. After all, contrary to what his boys might have believed, he was most certainly human, and as controlled as he was, still a man whose body tended to have natural male desires. He had been brushing it off as unnecessary libido for almost twenty years, though, except on very rare occasions that called for celebration, and never where prying eyes could find him.

"What, ya gay er sumthin?" Pickles felt a little self conscious at that statement, considering he _was_ the one with his manager's picture in a locket, and he _was_ the one with a colorful sexual history, especially while a member of Snakes n' Barrels, but the alcohol coursing through his system got him through it without much time to think.

"No, I'm not." Was Charles' matter-of-fact reply to a question he didn't feel Pickles really warranted an answer to.

"Whatever, dood. But, yer serious, den? Nothin' goin' on 'tween the two of ya? Not even ta blow some steam?"

"Yes, Pickles. I'm serious. It's all just business. Thanks for your, ah, concern, though. If you'd like to make a move on her, you, ah, have my blessing, although I doubt if you'll get far."

Charles felt a little self-righteous when he envisioned how _that_ would play out. He imagined it would be much like what had gotten him the slightly swollen split lip everyone had noticed, but no one had dared to mention. The drummer shook his head, taking a moment thereafter to steady his suddenly missing equilibrium.

"Nah, not me, dood. But you'd better get it straight wid Toki…and, uh, Toki an' Skwisgaar afore long." He teetered unsteadily towards the exit, but Charles's curiosity had been sufficiently piqued once more.

"Ahm…why?"

"Cuz, dood. Toki's convinced 'imself that yer gonna marry Zoe an' yer gonna have babies and all that feckin' shit. The kid's really torqued up about it, y'know? I ain't gonna be the one to tell 'im otherwise. And Skwisgaar's the one who wants ta get 'er in the sack- no s'prise there- so ya might wanna give 'im the go'head before the poor guy creams 'imself just talkin' to 'er."

Satisfied with the answers he'd received, though admittedly disappointed that Charles wouldn't even take a risk for someone who might be good for him, Pickles wandered out to go find some more vodka and get sufficiently hammered to fantasize about her on his own. Because, with the exception of the Swede's GMILF's, anything with breasts and a pulse was fair game.

But back inside his office, Charles was desperately trying to figure out what had made him want to punch something so violently, so suddenly.


	8. Chapter 8

** Chapter 8**

The day of the seminar had arrived all too quickly for Zoe, who knew that this was the moment that determined her permanence as part of the Dethklok team for the next year of her life. She had slept only part of the night, but even that was fitful, and the rest of her time had been spent ignoring Charles' words not to let it bother her. She'd encountered enough quiet, creepy Klokateers, and watched just as many die for it to be truly troubling to her. Still, she decided it couldn't be _that_ bad, so she dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers, as Charles had advised, and bounded into his office bright and early.

Charles felt himself wince slightly- he knew what was in store for her later that day, and her exuberance bothered him. The usual weeding process was something he'd had a major hand in setting up, something nearly as natural as breathing for finding the people who would truly be useful to Dethklok's empire, and both men and women regularly attended the procedure. But still, he was on the fence about letting Zoe go through with the seminar, and it showed in his abnormally tense shoulders and tapping fingers. If Zoe saw and acknowledged his abnormal behavior, she didn't say anything.

"Morning, sir. How are you today?" Her brown eyes were bright and steady, but traces of nervousness lingered in her gaze. Charles coughed softly, his body trying to ease his own tension.

"Fine, Miss Warwick. Though, ah, I think it's time we talked about what's, ah, going to happen today."

She nodded, seating herself primly, wiping her palms on her thighs. Her actions were those of someone all too eager to get an unpleasant situation over with while keeping a smile on their face. Again, Charles felt himself twitch involuntarily, and he didn't know why. He vaguely wondered if he was catching a cold, but shook it off as improbable.

He straightened some papers on his desk, preparing what he had to say inside his head, but when he looked up, the words wouldn't come, and it shocked him that he was having so much trouble telling an _expendable_ that she had a fifty-fifty chance of being in the crematorium by the end of the day.

Actually, in her case, it was probably 30-70, with the latter being statistical fatality.

He knew well that she would die on the job soon enough, if not today at the hands of an overzealous metalhead, but that didn't deter him from having to bury unbecoming emotions of anxiety and slight despair.

"Miss Warwick, ah...well..."

It was beginning to seem like it was not his morning, because he discovered he couldn't tell her without losing informality and calling off the whole affair. But the longtime businessman in him knew she _had_ to go through with this, or she could never fully be trusted. It was just the way things worked.

Zoe watched this all with a churning stomach, and leaned forward, taking the answer he struggled with out of his hands before he could reach a conclusion. To Charles' surprise, she stood and lay a tiny hand with perfectly manicured nails on top of his, patting it gently before pulling back, a shy smile playing on her too-big lips. He felt his jaw drop open of its own accord. He knew he must look like a gaping fish, but he just felt stupid and slow and like his thoughts were swimming through a pool of molasses…and he didn't know why. That was what bothered him the most. It made no sense at all.

"Forgive me if that was out of line, sir, but it's okay- you don't have to tell me. I'll be fine. You've taught me well! I'm sure I'll pass the test today. I just wanted to let you know how much I've enjoyed working with you, regardless of what happens now."

Before Charles could say anything, a Klokateer arrived at the door and whisked her away to the seminar.

And he began to wonder how in the world he would replace such a valuable asset to his work _this_ time, as he prepared to address the entire group of new entrants, knowing full well there was no way he could even look at her when he did.

* * *

Zoe stood in the large room, feeling alone, surrounded by people who made her feel more than just uncomfortable. On her right, an overweight man who wore a too-tight Dethklok t-shirt, exposing his shuddering, hairy stomach. He reeked of booze and urine, and the scent of body odor assaulted her and made bile rise in her throat whenever he dully shifted positions. To her left, a woman even smaller than herself, who was obviously suffering drug withdrawal. She coughed and hacked, constantly shivering and wiping at her nose. Her bloodshot eyes only met the floor, and she passed the time by muttering to herself, as though she were speaking in tongues.

Still, Zoe remained rather unfazed. She just stood betwixt these two unsavory characters, professionalism overriding her emotions, as another face in a crowd of well over two-hundred bodies. Her only thoughts were focused on making Charles proud enough to call her assistant-manager permanently, and she would do anything to make that happen.

Or so she thought.

Her boss had appeared- she hadn't expected him to be speaking. He seemed so disinterested in the whole affair that she figured he probably never even attended it himself. He addressed the crowed in his blandly condescending way, calling everyone useless tools and using nearly-vulgar language she knew he adopted when dealing with the type of people surrounding her. Politeness wasn't usually the way to go with this breed of metalhead. Unlike her, they seemed to thrive off the negativity. He stepped down from the podium and disappeared, while Facebones was projected high above the amassed bodies, droning on and on about things Zoe already knew and had studied. Things her boss had told her over deviled eggs and brisket. Suddenly, though, she felt herself pale. Her legs trembled as her mind fought to process the words the disembodied head had just spoken.

"And now that we've gotten through the boring stuff, let's have some fun! Let's pair up into groups of two people and fight to the death with your bare fists!"

He..._it,_ was just joking, right? This was all a big joke and either the skull or Charles or a Klokateer would appear and make a statement, and everyone would laugh it off. She couldn't believe this..._this _was how Dethklok created Klokateers? _This_ was what Charles allowed to happen to innocent people who actually fueled the empire? He let them die, let them slaughter one another, just to make an army of people who lived in less-than-satisfactory conditions in Mordhaus, never seeing the light of day except to go out with the band as protectors and servants? They enslaved themselves happily, never uttering an ill word, with minimum wage paid just to cover room and board, and THIS was how those people were chosen?

The skull was, in fact, serious, and the atmosphere of the room changed immediately. The steel doors were shut and barricaded, so there was no chance of escape. The sound of the scraping steel reverberated in Zoe's ears and drowned out all other sounds momentarily. It was the sound of her life suddenly screeching to a halt. She knew nothing but fear as the sounds returned, one by one, accompanying the blood steadily thrumming in her eardrums.

She was trapped, and the tears began to stream uncontrollably down her face. Her knees shook, and people around her began to growl at one another menacingly. She saw a few take up fighting stances, but most just stared at each other, sizing up the easiest prey. Pre-masked Klokateers- people who had already passed this disturbing _test_- swarmed the front of the room, watching with clipboards and pens poised to tally the living and the dead.

Zoe backed up, animal instinct taking over and forcing her to hunch, almost as though an invisible tail was tucked between her knees. Suddenly, though, the first punch was thrown somewhere in the back, and the whole room erupted into a frenzy of crazed killers. Zoe screamed, sobbing now, as she felt herself bump into something big and not unlike a wall behind her. The wall growled, and Zoe's bladder let go, warm and embarrassing liquid running down her legs and soaking into her sneakers.

As if in a dream, she turned slowly, met with the sight of a huge, burly man with bulging muscles adorning his less-than-perfect physique. His dark hair was spiked dangerously, and as he snorted through his nose, corded bands stood out in his flushed neck. Some part of her mind that was still working on cognitive thoughts decided she should just stand still, because her hair was red and he was obviously a Spanish bull that had skinned a human and learned to walk on two legs.

The young lawyer's life flashed in front of her eyes before he even hit her, and when he did, it blew her into someone who was currently being choked to death. She doubled over, retching onto the already fluid-soaked floor, the vomit running down her chin and permeating her already sweat-encrusted t-shirt.

"Get up. You're taking the fun out of this." The man bellowed, kicking her in the ribs. Zoe felt a sickening crack as she tipped over, struggling for air. Slowly, focusing on her breath, she forced herself to her knees, and then to her feet, wobbling back and forth, before he punched her once again, a direct blow to the solar plexus, felling the small woman easily.

She thought she was dead. After a moment of being blissfully blacked out, she came to, being hauled to her feet by her opponent, who just wasn't done with her yet. He smiled ferally, rotted yellow teeth crookedly staring her in the face.

Zoe felt something in her snap, and she saw red for the first time in her life. It was as though all the hatred in the world suddenly boiled up inside her tiny frame. She heard someone screaming in rage in the distance, saw someone lash out and leave deep claw marks in the face of the man who held her, who blinked in shock before dropping her to her feet, a hand reaching up to stop the bleeding. She punched now, reminiscent of the lessons Charles had given her, and caught him in the jowl, snapping his head to the side, but not hard enough to do much harm.

Enraged, the man flew at her, raining punches, many of which Zoe blocked out of sheer adrenaline-fueled movements.

"You bitch, I'll fucking slaughter you!" He railed, and made one false move that Zoe avoided altogether, sending him stumbling forward, his own weight throwing him off-balance.

He hit the ground on his knees, and immediately, she was on him, ripping at his hair, tearing at his eyes, kicking and punching. Again, she was conscious of a voice screaming "I don't want to die" over and over, as loud as it could, but she couldn't fathom who was making all the fuss. She was calm- why couldn't everyone else be?

Hooded Klokateers began moving through the massacre, counting the bodies and moving those who had triumphed out of the way of others, opening more space. Zoe rode her opponent piggy-back, trying to get a hold on something important- anything, really- but to no avail. The hulking creature beneath her grabbed her ankle and tossed her down onto the ground like a rag doll, knocking the wind out of her. She scrambled backwards, the searing pain in her lungs not enough to keep her from trying to preserve her life. Blood spilled over her lips, and she spit at the man, who just laughed darkly.

She was crying again, eyes wide with fear when he pounced on her, tearing at her clothes, smacking her, and finally, grabbing her around the throat, pressing his thumbs into the hollow under her jaw until she felt the blood to her brain slow and precious breath impossible to draw in. It felt like those massive, meaty thumbs were actually sinking in…and they probably were. With the last of her strength, she started frantically struggling, looking for any placement for a direct hit that might do damage, so at least she wouldn't go down without a fight.

A Klokateer brushed past them, seeming to look down at their heap on the floor when he wandered by. Zoe stared up at him with pleading eyes, trying to form any words that would make him see that she wasn't ready to die and she didn't want to play anymore and she would just leave and never look back if he could get her out of this, but of course, he just kept on moving, unaffected by all of it. As her vision grew fuzzy, she still struggled, kicking out and catching her soon-to-be killer in the groin, the abdomen, the face- Anywhere she could connect. The thought that dawned on her was that his was the last face she'd ever see as the world grew black.

And then his hand slackened, and she drew in a breath as best she could, her throat crushed. Zoe lay on her back on the floor, panting, barely able to form thoughts, when she heard a small mewling noise. Looking down her nose with tunnel vision, the man who had been assaulting her just moments before held his middle and tipped over on his side, his breath shuddering to a grubby, gurgling halt.

Zoe couldn't believe it. She was alive, and he was dead, and she didn't know how or why. All she knew was she had killed a man in the service of Dethklok. All she knew was she was a lawyer, and a good girl, who had always lived by the rules, and now she would have this unlamented death hanging over her head for the rest of her life.

The problem that sent her into a shut-off corner of her mind was that she was completely unbothered by it all.

Zoe didn't shed a tear when a Klokateer helped her up, ticked off her name on her clipboard, showing her to the front of the room, where she would register as the winner, take her oath, and be given three pairs of the Klokateer uniform while she continued the next few weeks of training. She was then aided in the infirmary, showered in the women's locker room, and reported back to the training room when the carnage had ended.

She was an official Klokateer. She had snuffed out an innocent life, and taken the oath. She feared not her mortality; she didn't feel the pain in her wounds, or in her heart. She was a gear. And now her work at Mordhaus could really begin.

* * *

No one noticed the number of pre-selected Klokateers had diminished by one body. Outside the room, a masked figure leaned against the wall and pocketed the small, capped syringe, breathing evenly.

Charles pulled the hood over his head, taking off down the hall after balling it up in his hand, and wondering what the long-term consequences of his actions that day would end up becoming.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

What happened the morning after the seminar was something he had never anticipated. He had offered her the day off in writing, surprising even himself with his unnerving level of sympathy, but had received no reply. Charles figured Zoe was sleeping off the effects of a broken rib, a crushed larynx, and other bodily injuries. Regardless of his quiet and unknown interference, she'd still done a number on her opponent. He certainly was pleased with her performance. He took it as a sign that she would fair well under further instruction.

Still, at 9 o'clock exactly he heard steps in the hall that crossed his threshold, and the customary, "good morning, sir," was given (albeit whispered and very raspy), but he was still startled.

Zoe- was it Zoe?- was dressed from head to toe in a black pantsuit, her Klokateer hood obscuring her face. Charles felt his jaw slacken- shamefully, for the second time in two days- when he looked up. He hadn't been expecting such a dramatic change. He hadn't been expecting any change, actually.

"Ah…good morning, Miss Warwick. Congratulations on, ah, passing the test."

Charles was careful to hide the lie in his voice, the lie that wanted so very badly to ask her to take off the hood, and not to become just another Klokateer. He found would actually miss having someone to talk to over lunch. But instead he pushed those thoughts away, pushed away the notion of having someone more like himself around, and found he could mostly adjust to the idea of things returning to his typical idea of normal.

Mostly.

"Thank you, sir." Came the stiff and robotic reply from underneath the heavy black canvas.

He shuddered internally, not even stopping to wonder why he reacted that way.

"Ah, you know, Miss Warwick… you can take off the hood, if you, ah…if you want. I won't hold you to such standards since you came from the record company and not of your own free will to be a Klokateer."

Charles rubbed at the back of his neck anxiously, feeling the cold chill emanating from her very body as she came to stand beside him, staring off into the space of his office.

"No thank you, sir. I am a Klokateer, and we are gears. We do not need to show our faces to be a useful servant to our lords Dethklok." It was a direct quote, but not one he'd ever thought he'd hear from her mouth toned in anything other than sarcasm.

Up until then, Zoe had made it her mission to ask him why the Klokateer code was so fiercely written- not just a rulebook, but a guideline to every aspect of life. Much to his chagrin at the time, she had mocked it openly, laughing at her own jokes as she practically hung upside down in his lounge chair, while had just rolled his eyes and continued nibbling on a slice of delicious pineapple glazed ham. He realized there was nothing he could do now, and shrugged it off. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all. It was certainly more professional of him to just treat her like he would a regular assistant, anyway.

"Well, ah…whatever you decide, then, I guess is fine. Um…can you reply to the Krank representative via email? We need that shipment of 10,000 units by next Saturday." He took note of some of the cuts on her knuckles and shrugged.

"If you're feeling up to it, that is." Dear God, what was he _saying_? She would just damn well have to be up to it, or she'd be out on her ass- perhaps even dead and stuffed in a drain pipe. Those were her three options. No choice. No remorse. That. Was. It. Wasn't it?

Charles needed a stiff drink. A very stiff drink. And it wasn't even afternoon. Maybe he should just go back to bed. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that either, and so he just say there, with his nerves ready to fray and break at the slightest provocation.

Zoe inclined her head.

"Of course not, Sir. It's my job." He pushed his laptop towards her, and she simply leaned over it, opening his email client and scrolling through until she found the message in question. And then, as though something had suddenly occurred to her, she turned her masked visage towards Charles, who waited for her to speak.

"Oh, and sir?" He got his hopes up for a moment, thinking perhaps that she would take off the mask, tell him she was kidding around, and ask him how he slept.

"Yes, Miss Warwick?"

"It would be more logical, milord, for you to refer to me as Klokateer thirty-seven-seventy-two, if you so choose."

Instantly Charles knew Zoe was gone, replaced by the hard, unquestioning shell of a single-minded servant to him and his boys. Somehow, the knowledge that she had lost herself within herself comforted him. A working body was just a working body, after all. No one cared if something happened to it, and neither did he. He was rather perplexed that he had let her get to him at all, but now that he knew for sure, only a small itch of horror remained deep inside him, easily ignored and brushed out of the way. It was like she had never existed at all, if he didn't think about the past two weeks.

Much easier said than done.

Still, by lunch time, it was like nothing had ever changed- as though he had hired a Klokateer right from the beginning for the job. She stood at his side at attention, never speaking unless spoken to, never fidgeting, never even sitting down. She waited until she was told to take on a task to do it, and did it as quickly and efficiently as possible. Mealtime, as well, was back to its old pattern, and was a silent affair for Charles, who ate alone in his office while Zoe returned to the Klokateer mess hall for her indistinguishable goop.

Work progressed smoothly after that until mid-afternoon, when Pickles decided to drop by Charles' office unannounced, as usual. He half expected-wanted to see, really- the two corporate figureheads mercilessly sucking face, or worse, on Charles' desk, but was greeted with no such imagery as he entered the door. In fact, what he saw shocked him, and his bloodshot green eyes turned on Charles like a rabid dog.

"The feck is dat?" Pickles rasped, surveying the curtly standing servant at Charles' side It took him a moment to recognize the less-than-supermodel-perfect figure wearing the pantsuit as Zoe's. When he did, shock appropriately settled in. This was not what he expected Charles to resort to at all. Sure, his manager was made of steel with a heart of ice, but…she'd just been so…._good _to them all. So good, it nearly made him want to puke, in an amusing, "we're like siblings only you're so much cooler than Seth" kind of way. What had been wrong with that? Pickles just stood there, gawking at the Klokateer whose cutout eyes stared into the distance blindly.

"I'm afraid I, ah, don't know what you're talking about, Pickles." It was rubbish and they both knew it. Charles still met the drummers' gaze, though, unafraid and knowing it was useless to go back on any decisions now. That ship had sailed.

"Shaddup, dooshbeag. Is that her?"

"Is that _who_, Pickles?"

"Is that _Zoe_?" Charles' ever-present stone face was really making him jittery. The CFO nodded.

"Yes, Pickles, that is Miss Warwick, who goes by Klokateer thirty-seven-seventy-two, these days. I doubt she'll, ah, answer to anything else."

The redhead gasped, the manager's cold words cutting through him like a knife. This was the woman who had bothered to get to know him, to hold him while he saw hellish things, to hold back what remained of his hair when he vomited all over the bathroom floor, and not judge him for any of it…granted, he had never been one for sentimentality, but turning her into a Klokateer was, in his opinion, a dick move. There was a big difference between being able to have virtually every woman in the world any way he wanted, and being able to have a friend on hand to pal around with.

"You…you're worse den a robot. You're a feckin' piece a' shit, 'Fdensen." And with that, the drummer grabbed the nearest thing he could find- naturally, a lamp- smashed it on the floor, and stormed out.

Immediately, Zoe was on her hands and knees with a dust pan and brush she had procured from the cabinet, sweeping up the broken glass and moving the metal parts out of the way. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, rubbing at his eyes, and so her trembling went unnoticed. She emptied the collected glass into the trash can, placed the body of the lamp in with them, and then returned to Charles' side, but cleared her throat to speak.

"If it pleases you, sire, may I go to the infirmary? It's time for my medication." He nodded without looking at her, trying to read over the papers in front of him and not succeeding.

"Fine. And, ah, y'know what? Take, ah…take the rest of the day off, thirty-seven-seventy-two. That's an order. You, ah, need recovery time." In reality, he couldn't stand to be around his own creation at that moment. The hurt in one of his boys' eyes had been deep, and he knew he had put it there. Usually it wouldn't bother him…and he refused to examine why it did.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She didn't even question why, just marched out the door numbly.

Charles forcefully shoved his thoughts away for the moment, and returned to focusing on the endorsements at hand.

* * *

Pickles caught up to Zoe as she moved herself slowly to the infirmary, her whole system sore and overwrought.

"Zoe? C'mon, take the hood off. It looks stupid on you."

It didn't feel or sound like her voice when she answered the same way she had answered Charles. Then again, she didn't seem to be feeling much at all.

"Dood, give it a reast! He di'n't really make you go through with it, did he?"

It stopped the drummer dead in his tracks when she replied.

"Lord Ofdensen has made me do nothing I wasn't willing to do, my master. I simply pledged my allegiance to you and the rest of Dethklok in the specified manner. I am at your disposal."

He had nothing to say, so he left her to make her way down to the infirmary alone, going to clear his head by venting to Nathan or Skwisgaar, and then to find the biggest bottle of Disaronno Mordhaus had to offer.

* * *

Zoe sat down slowly on her cot, her entire form riddled with injuries. She felt as though if she fell asleep, she might never wake up, but the EMT's had assured her that her wounds, once taken care of, would not cause lasting damage.

The face of the man she had murdered swam into her vision, and her face heated up, though she acted upon nothing she was feeling. Slowly, almost as though she were committing a crime, she peeled the Klokateer mask from her face, casting it aside. She didn't cry, though. She simply laid down on her cot, still clothed, and stared at the ceiling, lost in blissful semi-consciousness until morning came once more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Dethklok were characteristically hungover the next morning.

Pickles had indeed told everyone, who had simply shrugged and dealt with it in their own ways, by shrugging or grunting or completely ignoring the drummer. After all, she was just some chick Charles was banging. Big deal. But, internally, all of them were a little peeved at their manager. It was just like when Melmord had disappeared, and when Charles had blown them off to work, and Nathan's "girlfriends" had finally stopped coming to visit the rest of the band, and when a slew of other people had just…stopped caring over the years. Caring wasn't metal, but having someone to get completely hammered with and do stupid things with was.

They had been grooming Zoe to get to that point. After all, hanging out with the same four other people got pretty annoying after a while. She had been a nice change of pace.

Toki was the one who reacted the worst, as he was practically crushed when he had heard the news, and still hadn't let go of deddy bear to go about his daily business. When Charles walked in, calm and collected as always, it was too much for the young Norwegian, and he glared daggers at the tired manager before retiring to his room with the bear and a beer bottle in tow. The rest of the band continued to eat in silence, giving Charles the cold shoulder.

"Morning, guys. I, ah, just have a couple ideas to throw at you today, so, ah, here we go." He decided which one to bounce off of the remaining band members first, but was cut short in his thoughts by Nathan's growling voice.

"Just shut up, Ofdensen."

A bewildered Charles looked up from his thoughts, four bloodshot and narrowed pairs of eyes staring back at him.

"Ah…well, I'm sorry. I can't do that, Nathan, because I need you to hear these pitches and decide if any of them might be something you're interested in do-"

"Hey, I said fucking shut it!" He bellowed, and Charles' mouth snapped closed tightly.

"I take it you told them, Pickles?" He muttered.

"Yer damn right I told 'em, dooshbeag." The redhead retorted, downing the last of his morning alcohol and beginning on his afternoon drinks.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry guys, but it had to be done."

"Schorry. Schorry?" Murderface was lost for words beyond that. He was going to miss baked murder goods and getting to stare down the young lawyer's cleavage when she leaned over to wrap up his knife wounds.

"You's ams sorries, Ofdensens? You's ams not sorries. You's am not sorries at alls. You's ams de robot- you's feel nothings. You's has de hearts of ice, remembers? Ands now we's has anothers robot to be dealings with." Skwisgaar turned his nose up at the CFO, sneering. Charles just stood there helplessly. He wasn't even getting yelled at- instead, a deadly calm had fallen over his boys, and he was forced to take a dose of his own medicine, not much caring for it.

"Well…it's, ah…it's over with, now. So, you know what? I'll come back later and we can, ah, talk about these ideas some more, alright?" He beat a hasty retreat, knowing there was no getting through to them like this, and all sorts of insults were being hurled at his back.

His day only deteriorated further when he arrived back in his office, to find Toki had _not_ returned to his room, but was standing in front of the masked assistant-manager, waving his hand in front of her face and smothering his face in his stuffed animal to hide his weakness. Charles remained in the doorway, an unfamiliar feeling tugging at whatever heartstrings he had left to be pulled. Toki was the baby of his boys- seeing him cry and knowing there was nothing he could do about it made him want to hurt whatever it was that caused the pain.

A difficult task, seeing as he had never been one to inflict self-harm.

"Yous was likes de mothers I never hads, Zoe! Whys you has to let dildos manager takes that away!" He sobbed to the stony figure, who said and did nothing, even when deddy bear was hurled at her face. Toki ran past Charles, not even looking at him as he sprinted past, down the corridor, and disappeared. His unusually open cries, however, were still cuttingly audible. Charles had to shut the door and lean against it, fighting to keep his breathing steady and to keep his cheeks from darkening in both ignominy and anger.

Zoe, her movements slow and dreamlike, touched her mask where the small stuffed animal had collided with her head, bent down, and picked up the bear. Charles felt himself desperately hoping that she was coming out of the brainwashing his lackeys had put her through, that this waking nightmare (why did he feel so strongly about this, again?) he'd inadvertently landed himself in was coming to a close. She brushed off the bear, and seemed to study it for a moment.

But, of course, Charles should never be so lucky as to have things go his way on a regular basis.

"Sir. Shall I return this to master Toki at once?"

He heard the machine-like quality in her voice, as though her minimalist thoughts were being channeled through his laptop. The timbre of her words rang hollow in his ears, and he barely found himself able to mask the expression of absolute terror that wanted to worm its way so desperately onto his pale features. For the millionth time in two days, he straightened his tie and tried not to question his motives.

"Ah…no. Just leave it here. I think its best if you and the guys didn't, ah…didn't have contact for a while."

There it was. His world-famous nerves of steel automatically dealing with the situation better than anything he could have come up with, had he allowed himself time to think. This blessed, yet despicable quality of his was one that came with both a natural talent and years of practice. He would never back down, never make a wrong move, never surrender to anyone or anything that wasn't in Dethklok's best interest. And developing personal feelings of _any_ kind for his assistant manager was certainly never in the cards. Again, he tried to reckon with himself, that things were easier, this way. She was a nameless, faceless Klokateer. Just another gear in the grand machine. He didn't have to worry about her anymore. If she died, or worse, it was of no consequence. There were more where she came from.

Yet he still worried that he had done something horribly, irreversibly _wrong_.

* * *

Zoe had retired for the evening after asking if there was any more work "sire" would like done. The night settled thick and black over the giant land-bound Viking ship, causing the usually impassive manager to clutch deddy bear tighter under his arm, wary of the long shadows all around him.

He came to the room he wanted, listening silently at the door. Soft sounds of breathing and the occasional mumble from a fitful slumber reached his ears. He eased the door open, careful not to disturb the chamber's occupant.

He was happy Toki slept with a night light. It made him far less jumpy as he approached the snoring Norwegian. Charles looked down on Toki for a while, studying his young face. Yes, his boys were the only family he had now, and that's how it would stay. He would keep his distance during the day, be professional and cold, but every night, he found he couldn't sleep if he didn't check on them first.

Tears still glistened against Toki's pale skin, and his moustache was wet with salt-water. Charles sighed quietly, reaching out to wipe the excess sadness from the guitarist's cheek, the way a father does for a little boy who suffered a great disappointment. Toki grumbled in his mother tongue again, incoherently, and shifted. He wished he could take the nightmares away, take away the screaming that sometimes reached his ears in the middle of the night and broke the already shattered pieces of his heart and soul, but it wasn't his place. There was nothing he could do, nothing he _did_ do, except gently tuck deddy bear under Toki's arm, which he curled into immediately. He didn't linger a moment longer than that, shutting the door softly behind himself and not looking back.

Next on his check list came Pickles. Charles made his way to the drummer's bedroom, again listening and then daring to peer in. He'd learned his lesson in the past for not following such protocol, and he shook those unpleasant images away now.

The smell almost always hit him first, above all else, but by now, he was used to it. Pickles lay sprawled out on his bed, his own vomit staining the sheets and a bottle of booze clutched to his chest like a security blanket. A half-smoked joint lay haphazardly in the ashtray. The manager took the time to extinguish the smoldering smoke, and then checked to make sure the redhead Yooper was breathing, before slowly and gently turning him on his side and removing the bottle from his grasp. Charles tossed one of the kicked down, unsoiled sheets over Pickles, and then continued on his way.

Skwisgaar came after Pickles. He was the one person Charles worried about the least, because the Swede was almost always up late with a group of women. Tonight, however, Charles only heard moans of ecstasy from one or two females, instead of a whole busload. He moved on, then, to Murderface, who he always made sure didn't have a sharp object in his hands or near him on the bed, and wasn't already bleeding to death. Satisfied with the bassist's contented snores and that there was nothing that could cause severe bodily harm in the immediate vicinity of the sleeping man, Charles made his last stop at Nathan's door.

Inside, he could hear Nathan muttering to himself, obviously laying down some song notes into his trusty recorder. Charles lingered for a moment, wondering if it was anything that would end up on the next album. He wished he hadn't, after, when it occurred to him that Nathan's song titles- namely that night, "Dream Smashing Dethcount," "Cataclysmic Fucking Ogre" (or, CFO, when abbreviated, which stung), and "Mommy Slaughter" were reflections on his treatment of Zoe. When it finally occurred to him that Nathan was physically fine, he hurried away from the words at his back as fast as he could without running or looking suspicious.

But when he reached his own rooms within Mordhaus' unfriendly walls, he stopped for a moment, before he turned back, and moved deeper into the structure's depths. There was one other person he needed to check up on before he could rest. He could always just invent something for her to write down while he was there. It wouldn't be unlike him to wake a sleeping assistant just to have them scribble down three or four words. After all, that's what they were there for.

Down he descended, down into where hundreds of small cubicle style rooms created ruts in the walls for as far as the eye could see. He knew exactly where she was, as he had pulled that room (it was bigger and would accommodate more books and work) especially for her.

Zoe's door looked identical to everyone else's, save for the number on it. He listened again, not sure whether he dared to go in or not. He wasn't sure what he thought he would find, but he didn't want to find it, either way. Charles heard next to nothing coming from the room. No sobs, no sighs, no snores. His curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed the door open, to find there was no one inside. He completely ignored the small waves of panic that welled up in his gut, succeeding in believing they weren't really there. But then Charles had a thought, and hurried down into to the last level of Mordhaus.

Sure enough, there she was. Hood and all, a training sword held limply in her hands. The blank mask stared at the stuffed fencing dummy, and her body language came off as uncertain of how to proceed.

"Parry and thrust, for, ah, starters." He heard himself saying. He approached Zoe, quietly coming to stand behind her. If she was surprised at his sudden appearance, she never showed it.

"I'm sorry, sire. I don't know how."

As though dealing with a wild animal, Charles reached out, tenderly taking the saber from her grasp. Her movements, once so feminine and fluid in the simplest of actions, were now jerky and perfunctory. Without a word, he demonstrated the technique he wanted her to begin with, and the hood nodded.

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir." She said. Charles didn't have to fight hard to resist the urge to tell her to get some sleep. He resisted the urge to tell her to do _anything_, because it wasn't his place and it would mean he cared about something that was not meant to be cared for by him. He turned away, lifting a hand to place it on her shoulder, but then let it drop.

"Well, ah…keep up the good work," was all he said before exiting the training room.

He never slept that night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Time slowly passed.

It crawled, really. Charles couldn't understand why. He wasn't waiting for anything. Yet while days still carried on as usual, in the great scheme of things, he felt like he was searching for something always just over the horizon, and he was impatient to get there.

As fall at Mordhaus fell into full swing, things settled back into their daily routine, the way it had always been for almost twenty years. The band eventually returned to talking to Charles, though they had obviously not forgiven him for turning their friend into mental mince meat. Rather, they had just buried their feelings in childish antics, drugs, alcohol, and sex, somehow knowing he was still the one they needed to function as a whole. But those days, they rarely asked him to accompany them on outings, and never asked him to be their drinking buddy anymore. Secretly, it made him a little sad, but he'd survive. Zoe, dividing her time between Charles' office, her room, and the training room, was miraculously still alive, but far from being human.

A teeny hope of Charles' was that, in time, Zoe's wounds would heal, and with it, her personality. But no such phenomenon was to be had. In fact, she had slipped farther and farther into her role as a gear, going so far as to begin to excel at martial arts and swordsmanship, but this was, perhaps, a direct side effect of sleepless nights spent training- a common occurrence, Charles had discovered.

He still found it difficult to train her in these attack arts when she wore the mask, but she refused to take it off. He was finding it hard to remember what she actually looked like under there, easier to evade such thoughts that could lead in other directions.

By the time October was upon them, he had forgotten any and all feelings for Klokateer 3772, and she was just his assistant. His little world remained largely unchanged.

October was always a very busy month for Dethklok, what with Halloween, Mischief Night, and Oktoberfest on their calendars. Charles allowed himself a bit of young-blooded excitement when he thought of the upcoming shows- they would be his best investment yet. Oktoberfest was always a bother to him, however. His boys always got _so_ drunk they were usually in the hospital for a few days, no matter what precautions he installed to prevent their binge drinking. Briefly, face first in a cup of coffee, he mused over what would happen if he had their stomachs temporarily removed. After all, stranger things had occurred.

Before any of that happened, though, the usual trimmings began to adorn Mordhaus for the upcoming "most metal holiday of them all." Toki became obsessed with walking around wearing a sheet for the better part of the month, constantly walking into people and things when his eyeholes slipped out of place, and caused general mayhem wherever he went. Begrudgingly, the rest of the band gave into his childlike ways, and began to get keyed up, as well. Of course, this was after they had witnessed the rhythm guitarist brutally murder six Klokateers by accident in an incident involving a salad fork, an armful of damask pattern bedding, and a pencil sharpener. After the little white ghost had suddenly become blood red, celebration seemed much more appealing to them.

Such cosmic events tended to transpire when involving the young Norwegian, and the day that the entire band waltzed into Charles' office was no exception to the rule. That action would set into motion something none of them could have foreseen, but on that day, such an act was simply average.

Charles looked up from his laptop, Klokateer 3772 letting the clipboard she had been working off of drop to her side when she inclined her mask to her masters.

"Well, you all are, ah, up early. What can I do for you guys?" He waited expectantly while the rest of the band glanced over at what they once knew as Zoe. She still made them slightly uncomfortable. But, as was the new norm, she didn't move or rip the hood off her head and declare it was all a joke, so they focused their attention back on Charles.

"We wanna have a Hallaween party, dood!" Pickles exclaimed, beating Nathan to the punch.

"Yeah, we's wants to haves a party!" The talking white sheet in the group backed Pickles up, waving its endearing appendages next to an annoyed Skwisgaar- it was obviously part of his bedding set.

Charles nodded, taking this in and weighting the pros and cons artfully inside his head. He didn't see the harm in it, so long as it followed _some_ form of guideline.

"Well, ah, okay. Thirty-seven-seventy-two, write this all down." She did as she was told, but at the mention of her number, the entire band visibly flinched. Skwisgaar heard the younger guitarist inhale to protest, but elbowed him in the ribs in an attempt to stop him. He muttered in Norwegian, and again, the blonde shoved him. Toki stumbled, bumping into Nathan, who just glared at them both and pushed the smaller man off.

Pickles, ever the newfound diplomat, saw the chain reaction from this quiet mutiny play out in his head, and decided to take up the conversation once again.

"So, ah…we're gonna need, like, money and stuff to work this out, y'know." He looked from Zoe to Charles, suppressing his deep-seated ill-will in favor of gaining permission for such festivities.

"Well, what, exactly, are you planning for this, ah, party?" Charles noticed his phone was blinking out of the corner of his eye, but didn't move to take the call, seeing as his assistant was already in action, moving to pick it up and scribble down a message. Her quiet voice, once so lilting and gentle, was now cold, and the redhead felt his anger growing. He knew Charles could be a prick, but he hadn't realized he was capable of such acts of cruelty to someone they considered a friend (Dr. Rockzo was the exception to this rule, because Pickles had no problem with seeing the clown get his painful dues). Before he could snap again, however, Nathan broke the staring contest between manager and drummer.

"We were thinking we could have it here at Mordhaus…s'on Halloween…and we could uh, decorate the Rec room."

"Yeah, and everyone's gotta wear cahstumes!" The drummer chimed in, his own façade for the night obviously pre-planned.

"Yeah, and there's gotta be chips. Lots of chips."

"And candies! Don'ts forgets the candies!"

"_Ja_, and maybe we's ams carve pum-pi-kuns and den we's haves a smashings contests, or release de pum-pi-kuns goo from de ceilings all over everyones."

"And we schould fill the hot tub with sacrifischal pig'sch blood and pissch, and then make hot chickhs fight in it!" Murderface's wide-eyed tirade stopped the party fantasy cold in its tracks. Nathan looked uncomfortable, and tapped the toe of his boot against Charles' desk a couple times. The only sound was Zoe's pen scratching against the paper.

"Murderface."

"Yeah?" The bassist crossed his arms and sneered at Nathan.

"No piss. Okay? No piss in the hot tub. We've gone over this. Piss of any kind in the hot tub is not metal."

"Well, fine, then. 'Scushe me for wanting to fuckin' liven up a shtupid party. But pissch ish metal!" He whined.

"It is _not_." Nathan's tone was growing dangerously assertive. He'd had this conversation too many times to be dealing with it now. He was just too drunk. Or, maybe, just not drunk enough. That was more likely it.

"_Ja_, piss ams not metal, Murderface."

"Well, maybe _you're_ not metal!" The urine-obsessed bassist screamed, trying to protect himself. Charles felt his ears pop, but was powerless to resolve the problem.

The sheet wobbled around, struggling to find a way to look imposing and failing miserably.

"Takes that backs, Murderface! Skwisgaar ams totallies metal!" The little ghost shrieked, defending the taller guitarist.

"Juscht shaddup, Toki! What do you know! He alwaysch picksh on you! And yet you're telling _me_ to takshe it back? Geeshz, you and Skwisgaar are a total schaushage-feshtival."

Toki flailed in his makeshift ghost outfit, one foot tangled in the hem that dragged on the ground.

"For the lasts times, I's ams not haves beens to Vienna withs Skwisgaar!"

"_Ja_, and I's gets more womens in one hour dens you gets your whole lifes, dildos!" The Swede's curling lip put Billy Idols' trademark sneer to shame.

"Toki's naht gay, dood. Yer the one who won't even eat a hatdahg. What, afraid someone might see you swaller a footlong all in one bite?" Pickles smirked, watching Murderface flounder for a retort, spittle flying from his lips as he lisped uncontrollably.

"Heh, Pickles, looks like you hit a sore spot there. Might also explain why Murderface's room's closet is bigger than the rest of ours." The corner of Nathan's lips turned up into a rare smile.

That was all it took for all Hell to break loose in the middle of Charles' office on a sunny October morning.

Everyone began to yell at once. If Charles had listened closely, he would have deciphered three teams: Skwisgaar and Toki defending their masculinity, Murderface trying to assert his manhood and his prowess in the band, and Nathan and Pickles trying to shut everyone up with as little bloodshed as possible. Murderface raged savagely, screaming almost incoherent expletives as loud as he could while backing up towards the coffee table beyond the couch. Nathan was growing more and more angered by the moment, and Pickles was egging him on. By then, Skwisgaar and Toki had parted ways as allies, bouncing between yelling at the rest of their bandmates and squabbling amongst themselves in a jumbled mixture of English, Norwegian, and Swedish.

Murderface's searching arms finally found was he was looking for father back in the office, and hefted the lamp in his right hand, bouncing it in his palm for a moment, as if to gain a feel for his new weapon. Nathan, in response, yanked the cord out of Charles' desk phone and lifted it like he was intent on pie-ing a clown in the circus.

The bassist was about to charge over the back of the couch and smash the lamp over the larger man's head when they all suddenly stopped, dumbfounded.

"Put. The lamp. Down."

In a rare moment of headache-fueled fury, Charles had stood, removed his glasses, and slammed his hand down on the desk as hard as he could without breaking something (probably the desk). But it hadn't just been one voice that had said it- it had been two. Surprised, he glanced over at Klokateer 3772, who seemed to be fighting the urge to join the fray.

"And the phone." Zoe sounded almost agitated. _Almost_.

Charles' hazel gaze wavered, and moved from Murderface, who dropped the lamp on the couch, to Nathan pointedly. The hulking frontman stared him down for a second before letting the abused office tool clatter to the desk. Without waiting for instructions, the Klokateer began to shuffle them towards the door.

Toki bristled beneath the wrinkled sheet.

"Hey, yous can't makes us leave."

"But I can."

Charles aided his assistant in shepherding the band out the door.

"Thank you for stopping by, gentlemen. I'll, ah, think about the party and get back to you later, alright?"

Without waiting for a reply, he shut and locked the door, exhaling slowly. He heard Zoe moving about behind him, and turned, suddenly remembering she used to be human, and wondering if she was about to make a comment on what had just happened.

But she was only cleaning up the mess they had left behind. She righted the lamp and plugged it back in, and then repeated the task for the phone, placing the receiver back in its designated divots. After that, she regained command of her clipboard, standing at attention by the side of Charles' desk.

He let out a heavy sigh, knowing it was barely even afternoon, but needing a drink anyway. Moving towards the brandy he kept in his coveted liquor cabinet, he poured himself a glass, shuddering.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sire?"

Charles gripped the cabinet door, coolly reining in his anger.

"Yes. Go down to the control center. Keep an eye on them- make sure they don't start this up again and kill each other. Also, make sure they don't leave. Toki's apt to go out joyriding, and in their condition, it would end, ah, badly."

"Yes sire."

And she was gone, leaving him to wallow in his drink and wonder how not even the Great October Office Wars could faze her, when he felt his own well-formulated staidness become frayed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

He didn't know why he had agreed to this. Had no idea why he was allowing this. But it was happening.

Charles was pulling his stately black overcoat on over his suit, his scarf flying behind him as he hurried to the Mordhaus control center. He was just about to pull on his leather gloves when he reached the two guards flanking the entrance, who simply parted to let him in.

"Thirty-seven seventy-two." He called, entering the red-hued room. Zoe snapped to attention from where she had settled in to Charles' command chair. If he had been able to see her face, he would have noticed the flushed embarrassment that graced her cheeks for being caught indulging in the luxury of sitting down when not expressly told to.

"Yes, sire?"

"You're, ah, you're coming with me. Twenty-four oh-two, gather the boys. Get them ready to go, without a fuss. And make sure Murderface actually wears his jacket. It's chilly out there and the last thing we need is a bassist with a cold. Three thousand people were injured and killed last time that happened, and it caused sales to drop twenty-three percent in the third quarter. You, four-fifty-nine? Ready the Dethlimo."

The Klokateers in question jumped into action, and as Zoe trotted along behind Charles, a singular question actually lobbied her quiet, dead mind.

"Sire?" She murmured, working to catch up to his long strides.

"Hm?"

"Where, exactly, are we going?"

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't really have time for this, but he felt that if he didn't spend the small window he _did_ have with his boys, another fight could break out between them all.

"We're going shopping."

* * *

The ride into the next city over from Mordland was peaceful, or as peaceful as such a journey could be while in the company of Dethklok. The band members chattered amongst themselves, only stopping to hit each other twice, while Zoe and Charles quietly continued working in the back seats, sandwiched comfortably between the back windows and Skwisgaar. Charles checked various stocks and bank accounts on his laptop, and Zoe scribbled down the figures he dictated to her. His mind ran down just how much money Dethklok had to spare for the upcoming party he was allowing, turning the calculations over and over in his head until he was positive he had every last detail of anything they could possibly want worked out in expenses. Still, he was nervous they might overspend- after all, they had three major concerts coming up that had to be honored.

Finally, the limo halted, and Nathan threw open the door, slamming it into the limo's door man and sending him flying into the street, where he was promptly run over by a caravan of Volkswagen Beetles, taking a small elderly woman with him when he fell. The street was suddenly teeming with the smell of blood, guts, and a severe oversaturation of Chanel No. 5.

"Brutal." He murmured pleasantly.

The rest of the band tumbled out, to examine where Charles had whisked them away to on such short notice. He never went with them on a normal shopping trip, yet there they were, standing in a deserted parking lot outside a small but morbid-looking costume shop on the other side of town.

They were surprised, and it must have showed, because Charles suddenly stood beside them, clearing his throat.

"Everyone back at Mordhaus is working on preparations for the concerts and various appearances you have to make this month, including the tailors. So I, ah, thought you boys could handle gathering ideas for the party yourselves."

Murderface huffed, Nathan rolled his eyes, and Skwisgaar ignored them all, drinking in the woman in the tight jeans that was fixing up a window display inside the store. Pickles appeared to be neutral. Only Toki, as usual, was thrilled, and displayed it by bounding into the shop without much thought as to whether or not the others would follow.

Nathan looked uncomfortable.

"But, what, uh….what if we don't know what we wanna be at the party?" He wouldn't look at Charles, obviously feeling inept at making decisions again.

"Well, ah, that's why we're here. Just, stay in the building, alright? No shoplifting, no running around…Skwisgaar? Do not attempt to take the salespeople home with us. I think that's about it. Go on, get in there."

The group that looked as though they were already prepared for Halloween, sans business-attire Charles, trudged across the dusty asphalt and through the glass doors of the costume shop. A delightfully cheery bell sounded when the open door triggered its alert sensor, and the whole band looked up, willing it to stop. As they passed through the door, a small child tried to duck out, but the electronic trigger for the door fell off the door and came down hard on the little boys' foot. He started howling, and the band grumbled. Charles rubbed at his temples. He would never get used to that sound. It just made him want to kill everything in sight. The child noticed his behavior, and glared up at him. Charles glared right back.

"Sorry kid. Act of God clause."

With that, he shut the door with his foot, effectively pushing the little tyrant out into the parking lot. Zoe just stood there, a witness to his cruelty once again.

A blonde salesgirl approached them, fear in her expression, but a smile plastered to her face.

"Good afternoon, can I help you?" Her eyes settled on Charles, the least despicable-looking in the group, by external appearance only.

He shook his head.

"Not yet, I don't think. We're, ah, just looking."

Contrary to what Charles had just said to him outside, Skwisgaar smirked, stepping forward.

"I's needs help decidings whats to be for de Halloweens."

She seemed all-too charmed as the Swede whisked her away from the crowd, and Charles inwardly groaned. Yet another child-support suit to overturn was in the works, he felt. Gone were the days when he was strictly a Chief Financial Officer. He'd studied law, politics, even psychology after engaging in his career bringing Dethklok to the top, and yet he still couldn't get through to them on any level, half the time.

The rest of Dethklok slowly sifted through the store, picking up this and that, and trying on countless outfits or pieces of outfits. Charles found himself following Nathan around, as he was the most confused as to what to select and was therefore all the more talkative. He stopped when he found a selection of masks, and tried on one that looked like a cross between a gecko and a Klingon from Star Trek. The frontman tugged the latex over his head, then paused to look at his reflection in the provided mirror.

"So. You're, uh, coming to the party right?"

Charles blinked, looking up from his Dethphone.

"Excuse me?"

"The party, Ofdensen. Are you coming or not?" He said, struggling to pull off the mask.

"Ah…I'll be there, if that's what you mean."

"No. I mean are you _coming_ to the party?" Nathan glared at him, trying to get his point across.

Charles sighed, knowing what Nathan wanted. He wanted him to forget about work, forget about any threats that could destroy them all, take the night off, and get sloppy with them…_again_. And he knew if he said no, the consequences could prove dire. But if he said yes, they were all in danger.

"Is that, ah, is that what will make you happy, Nathan?" He sighed, feeling his face drop without his permission.

"Yeah."

"Alright then. I'll come to the party."

"Fuck yeah. Then you're gonna need a costume." He said, toying with a flimsy lightsaber.

"Ah, no, I don't think so, Nathan."

From the next aisle over, Pickles piped up.

"No cahstume, no entry, Chief."

He did his best to think of an excuse.

"I'm afraid that would, ah, present the wrong impression to your guests." He already knew their retort before Murderface could walk into the same aisle, dressed as Captain Hook and admiring himself vainly, even when the feather in his tri-corner hat fell in his face.

"Pusshy. _Robot_ pusshy. You don't have the gutsh to wear a coshtume. Afraid shomeone might make fun of ya?"

Whenever Charles answered a challenge like this, it was never with a retort. He never felt agitated when someone tried to put him down, mostly because he was well aware of his ability to kill them in a single blow, if he felt like it.

"No, I'm, ah, not."

"Well then, pick shomething out!"

There was no winning this battle, he realized. He either showed up in costume and gained the bands approval (and lost whatever respect they had for him at the manager-band borderline), or didn't show up at all and started a war. He could always win back respect, however, so he went with the safer option. It also dawned on him that if he didn't show up in costume, they would probably pick something absolutely humiliating out and get him into it whether he wanted to be or not, so this was definitely the way to go.

Charles heaved a heavy breath, and began to pick through the trappings of Halloween his charges had strewn across the store. He already had something in mind that he felt would fit him well, and began to search through various aisles to find what he was looking for.

In his travels, he found Toki tangled on the floor in a pile of loud and tawdry costumes, and helped the guitarist up quietly. That was when it dawned on him that Zoe was not assisting him anymore. He didn't hear any of the familiar voices in the store addressing her, either, so he began to wonder what had suddenly become of her.

Rounding the end cap display to search the back of the store to find more pieces of his future ensemble (which, he realized, would be cheap and unbecoming of the Dethklok manager, so he began to tabulate how much it would cost to have it hand-tailored), he found his Klokateer.

Zoe appeared to be staring at a lavish display, the dresses ranging from baroque to Victorian. She seemed particularly interested in one that was hiding in the back of the menagerie, and tried to discreetly stand on her tiptoes to get a better look.

Charles felt something he'd been repressing stir within. This was the most human she had acted in almost two months. The largest display of interest in anything other than their shared work and Dethklok, anyway. The hood obscured him from reading her expression, but her body language showed a definite affection for the costumes. Quietly, almost sneakily, he approached her. She noticed him when he was shoulder to shoulder with her, thoughtfully examining the stitching on the powder-blue sleeve of one dress.

"They look nice." He murmured after a moment. Zoe's back straightened. Caught again doing something she shouldn't be. That was twice in the same day. She felt ashamed.

"Yes sire. They are."

"What are you, ah, wearing to the party, thirty-seven seventy-two?"

Her hooded head turned to study him abruptly.

"I wasn't aware I was attending, sir."

He shrugged.

"Would you like to go?" The answer didn't affect him either way. A moment of silence passed between them both, and she shifted.

"I…No, sir. I would prefer to continue working through the party." Charles detected the slightest hint of sorrow in her voice, and part of him abstractly wondered why she hadn't accepted his offer. It _was_ a legitimate offer, anyway. It wasn't as though the wrong response to that question would see her collecting from unemployment. But, he shrugged it off instead of confronting her.

"Fine then. I trust you'll take command the night of the festivities? You know, make sure everything, ah, runs smoothly?" He seemed to be hinting at something far more sinister than Zoe had yet encountered, and secretly, it made her feel uncomfortable.

"Of course, sir."

"Okay. Go check on the boys- see if they're ready to leave or not."

She scampered off, leaving Charles alone for a moment to check the price tag on the dress she had been examining. It was an unconvincing knock-off of a period costume. It didn't even have a zipper, eyehooks, or buttons in the back- simply Velcro. Quietly he mused over how much an actual theatre reproduction costume would run him, in the off-chance event that she changed her mind. He decided to look it up upon returning to Mordhaus, just in case.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Charles had felt something in the pit of his stomach that day, the moment he'd woken up. It was the sensation of gnawing intuition, a gut feeling he just couldn't shake that something would go horribly wrong before he retired for the evening. He'd felt it when his boys had started the fight in his office. He'd felt it when they were out perusing the costume shop. And he felt it there, coiled in the pit of his stomach, as they sped along on their way back to Mordhaus.

As usual, he was right.

When they had departed, a shipment of hand-made Halloween decorations had just arrived in an eighteen-wheeler, passing them on the repaired, raised road that ran to the Mordhaus docking area. These were not just pumpkins and papier-mache ghosts, however. They were statues. Giant, blissfully devious lawn ornaments and gargoyles that were recreated every year to fit the band's whims and fantasies. Almost always they were carved from steel or stone, making them all one of a kind, macabre works of art. They would all flank the entry way to the Rec Room and be mounted on the edges of the highway, with a few specially reserved for the band's own enjoyment on the golfing green.

Upon returning to the land-bound ship, Charles decided to survey the progress his assigned Klokateers had made in setting up the decorations, and the band had followed him, not willing to leave him alone just yet. What he discovered, however, was less than satisfactory.

The magnetic generator that powered the lift system was on the fritz. This meant that instead of being able to forklift the gargoyles onto the lift that would effortlessly fly them to their required drop point, the Klokateers had to find a way to move each of the two-ton decorations by hand. Half of them were intent on trying to fix the machine, and the other half had devised a pulley system to hoist the hideous granite monsters high in the air.

Charles looked up. Indeed, a statue was being lifted by steel cables attacked to a hastily constructed swing-arm extending out from the mouth of the dragonspire. It made him feel a little nervous, having it hanging like that, but he shook it off. What were the odds?

The odds were, apparently, higher than he had anticipated. Charles turned away from the engineer after reprimanding his visibly shoddy workmanship, drawing his coat closer against him, and shepherded his boys towards the door. Zoe, however, he had left to do an inventory, and she was quickly counting boxes that were stacked by the loading dock. She was absorbed as always, mask looking around and pen poking at the air as she counted, seemingly not even feeling the cold. All thoughts toward the dress had obviously left her mechanistic head. But, somehow, she seemed less tense. Almost…more at ease with everything. It caught his attention, and he paused in the entryway.

Out of the crisp, cloud spotted sky, Charles heard the screech of scraping metal, and it turned his stomach as his ears began to ring. The oblivious band looked up in unison with their manager, and watched with a sick fascination as the pulley began to fail. A fat steel cable came loose, knocking an a couple unsuspecting operators and attendants to their deaths off the edge of Mordhaus as it wildly flailed in the wind.

And then the gargoyle it had been holding began to fall.

He didn't give himself time to think. Charles just reacted. In fact, he didn't know if he had ever reacted so quickly to anything in his life. His mind ran over wind speed and trajectory and just what was in the way of the impending impact. If he had actually stopped to consider his actions, he would've gone to war with himself. Luckily he was running purely on heart, and not head.

Darting forward, Charles pushed a few expendables out of the way and moved between crates and pipes and steel bars, finally football tackling the one person who was immediately in danger to the ground. His left shoe caught a rock embedded in the lawn- what luck!- and he pushed off before they even hit what was left of the grass, sending them rocketing away from the fall-zone. He hoped they were far enough away to avoid being impact victims, and tucked his head down as he instinctively shielded the body beneath him with his own.

The ground shook and roiled beneath them. The deep guttural noise harmonized with the terrified screams of the people around him, and he felt the sharp shockwave of air tear at his back and distinct, rocketing bits of shrapnel biting into his thick wool coat. Then, there was no air. There was no light, and no sound. There was simply cold and hot and the quick touch of shaking arms wrapping around his neck, as the rest of the body attached to them nearly convulsed in horror, hidden away from prying eyes by the impressive mushroom cloud of dirt, mineral, plant, and stone matter.

And just like that, it was over. Everything came rushing back. Silence had fallen over everyone, but he could hear the remaining settling of the giant, ruined sculpture, and the clouds were raining bits of granite down on everyone with a hardy, not-so-pretty tinkling noise. A few Klokateers groaned as they were hit with the debris. The fingernails retracted from his shoulderblades, and the arms fell away from his neck. The shivering lessened slightly. And the dust cleared.

Shocked and letting it show in their wide eyes and gaping mouths, Dethklok peered around the broken statue that was hopelessly lodged in the ground to find their manager lying on top of his assistant, safely on the other side of the carnage.

Charles regained his bearings and coughed, gray dust coating him from head to toe, trying not to get the minute stone particles from the splintered fallout lodged in his throat or lungs. The Klokateer beneath him was shaking, struggling to sit up, struggling to retain some form of her previous dignity, with her boss in such a compromising position so near to her. That close in proximity, he could see her eyes through the hood's eyeholes, and they stared back at him, speaking volumes of terror and surprise.

But no one was as surprised as Charles himself.

Silently, and with a completely impassive face, he disentangled himself from his assistant and left her laying in the mess, not bothering to ask if she was alright. He didn't have to. He already knew the answer. His ears were ringing from the force of the impact and her close-range screams, but he shook his head and stood up, fighting the lack of balance and the all-over pain that would soon follow.

Zoe propped herself up on her elbows, her chest heaving, etiquette temporarily forgotten. She was robbed of the words to ask if her master was okay, but luckily, other Klokateers rushed forward to do it for her. He waved them off, finding his voice, and looked down at the woman still on the ground. She trembled so violently he found himself strangely compelled to take off his dusty, now haggard coat and drape it over her shoulders, turning her into a huddling black mass. It seemed to help, however, and she stilled slightly. A male Klokateer stepped forward, kicking a piece of the totaled sculpture out of his way.

"My lord…what are your orders?"

Charles adjusted his skewed glasses, surprisingly not damaged, and nodded towards the disaster the lawn had become.

"Clean up the mess. And, ah… get her inside. Thirty-seven seventy-two…" He paused, stopping to study her again. He could just barely make out a glint on her wide irises from inside the hood when she tipped her head to look up at him, and he found he could not chastise her for not being more careful, and could not make himself think of anything even nearly as dark and cutting as he wanted.

"Go. Get cleaned up. Come see me when you're, ah, finished."

With that, he turned on the heel of his scuffed Italian loafers, trying to ignore the ever growing pain in his right knee, and moved Dethklok inside Mordhaus, still too stunned to speak.

* * *

The words came later, and they were only half of what Charles expected from his boys. In fact, they rather caught him off guard when they confronted him as he passed through the RecRoom where they were trying to unwind.

"Hey, Ofdensen!" Nathan choked out in between huge bites of the pizza he was currently stuffing himself with. A ghost chili on top the pizza popped and squirted into the left eye hole of a nearby attendant's hood, who screamed and clawed at his melting face until he ran smack into the spiky-side of the couch, impaling himself directly through the heart and stomach. No one batted an eye.

Charles stopped short, turning towards the occupied hot tub.

"The fuck was that today?" the singer looked angry.

Pickles was the only one in the tub who seemed content, his head lolling back as he nearly sucked the straw out of his hurricane glass and rolled it playfully between his teeth. Toki's mood was indeterminable, considering he was playing a video game on the other side of the room and was staying as far away from the following conversation as possible. Everyone narrowed their stare at him.

"I don't follow." Charles confessed. It was only part of the truth.

"Why did you save her and not us?" The gravelly timbre of the singer's voice was confused and hurt.

"Well, ah, you boys didn't need saving this time. You were well out of the way. Anyone could see that."

"Yeah, maybe, but you didn't know that fer shure! We coulda been hit by thoshe falling cablesh, or a pieshe of rock er shomething!" Came Murderface's plaintive outcry.

"_Ja_, buts inteads yous save de ladies from de fallings gargle-loya-lee. Totallies ams not metals." Skwisgaar fingered his guitar a little more heavily than usual.

Charles looked into the three faces that waited for an answer, dumbstruck.

"So, wait. Let me get this straight, guys. First you're upset with me for, ah, turning her into an expendable employee, and now you're upset that I…ah…well…you know what I mean…" He couldn't finish that sentence, and trailed off, a hot, awkward sensation creeping up on him from his the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.

He was suddenly realizing just how right they were. He'd known it all day since, of course, but had been refusing to address his obvious and glaring error, hoping futilely that it would just fade away if given time.

"What if…what if one of those cable things had uh…had hit us while you were on the ground?"

Finally, a chance to reassert himself.

"The idea of that happening with the direction of the wind and the, ah, momentum of the cable and your placement on the lawn was highly unlikely, but I'm sure someone would have jumped in and, ah, intervened."

"Buts woulds dey haves been ables to do sometings in times? Dey's is lazies and we's finds dem all de times asleeps in somes blood! You knows dat!" Skwisgaar countered. After all, only the elite Klokateers were known for speed and agility, and none of them had been present. Charles blinked.

"Yes."

Everyone just raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, ah…" This was hard for him, but for once, he swallowed his pride and straightened his tie.

"You boys are, ah….well…you're right."

"Damn right we're right." Murderface turned up his nose at Charles.

"Well, I'm sorry you all feel so ah, offended by this. But, as you know, I'm here to protect your best interests, and keeping this particular assistant alive does happen to fall into that category. It won't happen again." He didn't wait for any more questions or answers, and practically ran out the door. He needed to escape and he needed to work. But the conversation was far from over.

"What the fuck's his problem lately?" Nathan rumbled.

Suddenly the stoned, hammered drummer entered the conversation.

"Aw, take it easy on 'im this time, guys. The Chief's goin' through a rough time right now."

This startled the other occupants of the tub.

"Ish he, like, dying or shomething?"

"Nah. Not'in' like dat."

"Den what's ams wrongs with him? Huh, is de robot in needs of some greases for his…his…robots parts?" Skwisgaar frowned through his joke and rolled his shoulders, trying to appear graceful after butchering the English language. Again. As usual.

Pickles shrugged, taking another draw off the alcoholic beverage in his hand before continuing.

"He's in love."

The video game in the corner beeped wildly as Toki lost his concentration and was killed. It was a fitting noise to interrupt the silence that followed. Nathan tried to comprehend, features contorting into a sick and twisted visage that only like the likes of traveling horror-attraction side shows had known before.

"What?" He asked shallowly. The drummer readjusted himself in the warm water, sinking further down.

"Y'know, _love_. The most non-brutal emotion there is, dood."

Murderface was able to stop himself just short of bellowing "with who" and looking like an idiot before it dawned on him.

"That's just…I don't even…ungh." Nathan slurred, his black hair inky when it floated on the surface of the rolling bubbles.

"Scho, what you're telling me, is that _Charlesch_…isch in love…with his asschischtant." Murderface, too, was attempting to make sense of it all.

"Yep." Pickles nodded in the affirmative. Skwisgaar snorted after a minute.

"Goods ones, Pickle. De robots beings in de loves. I's thinks not. Loves ams for dildos and weakslings. Not de managers."

Lazy green eyes bored holes through the Swede.

"'S'not, Skwis." Pickles surprised everyone but Toki, who was silently listening in on the debate.

"But, uh…how do you know?" The frontman was now growing curious, despite himself.

"'Cuz I _know_, Nat'an. You can see it in 'is face when he looks at 'er. It changes 'im. Something about 'im changes. Today only proved it more."

Skwisgaar scoffed. Pickles rolled his eyes, continuing.

"Look. Ya'ver been in love, Skwis?"

"Fucks no." Was the stubborn reply.

"Then you wouln't unnerstan'. Love changes ya. It can make you do some crazy feckin' shit. Like saving his assistant 'stead of us. Ya can't blame 'im for it, though. Sometimes, it just happens."

Toki, who had been a bystander the entire time, switched games, finding time to comment.

"Hows bouts you, Pickle? Has yous ever been in loves?"

A strange expression settled on the redhead's pale face.

"Yeah, maybe, once." He confessed.

"What's happen to her?" The Norwegian struggled to pay attention and play his game at the same time. Pickles looked down.

"Ah. It was a long time ago. She's uh…she died from a heroin overdose, dood. It was jus' 'er time, I guess."

No one said anything to the effect of Pickles' dead girlfriend. Moments passed in silence before Nathan tried to steer the conversation back towards Charles.

"I don't uh…I don't think I like this."

"Me's neithers." Pickles interjected once again, hoping to close the debate for the moment, lost in his memories.

"Look. He ain't hurtin' nobody right now. He prolly don't even know what he's feelin' 'imself. And we're all still alive. If the chief had thought we were gonna get hurt, he woulda saved us, like he always does. Just let him deal with it on 'is own, okay? If he starts to get a little weird or does something seriously crazy, we'll tell 'im so, but naht until then."

And that was that for the evening.

* * *

The moon was but a sliver in the vastness of space that night. Every so often, Charles would turn to stare at it, but mostly he just tried to focus on his spreadsheet.

A timid Klokateer appeared in his doorway just then, and he jumped.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Thirty-seven seventy-two. Have a seat."

Anxiety wasn't a strong enough word for what he was experiencing on the inside. Of course, not a soul would have had a notion of his internal conflict- he hid things that well.

He knew, of course, what he had done was terrible. It had been a blatant display of attachment, and then to compound the problem, he had lied through his teeth to his livelihood. Zoe could easily be replaced by someone who could do her job just as well.

But Charles' dilemma lay in the fact that he knew it would never be the same again.

The room was devoid of sound. Just occasional click of the laptop track-pad or the rifling sound of fabric as Zoe shifted position uncomfortably. In the absence of chatter, however, he studied her.

Zoe's hood was still firmly over her face. She sat up straight, not making a sound, but she still wore Charles' coat over her uniform, and he noticed her curling into it every so many minutes, stroking the fabric and clutching it to her body. She couldn't seem to stop fidgeting- probably to try to hide her still-shaking limbs.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, his work finished for the night, closing his laptop.

"Are you alright?" He asked quietly, surprising himself yet again. It wasn't what he had meant to say. He had meant to get on her case about not getting herself out of the way fast enough. About being frozen in fear the way she was.

"Yes, sir. You saved me. I'm fine."

"No…I mean, ah…well…erm…are you… are you _alright_?" He was powerless to describe himself further, and felt nearly cross-eyed trying to see into his own mind for the right words.

This simple, stuttered question was to be her final undoing. Zoe managed to choke out a yes before the sobs wracked her tiny frame ferociously. It startled Charles, who wasn't sure of what to do. Crying people always made him feel uncomfortable.

She wept into her hands uncontrollably, and he felt like he was intruding by watching her fall to pieces (yet felt a quiet satisfaction in the whole affair, finally having personally reduced her to tears), so he got up and poured two glasses of brandy. Charles walked around the front of his desk, leaning against it placidly while he waited. Wet stains appeared on her Klokateer's hood, the front of it was sucked in and out with shallow puffs of air.

"You're going to suffocate if you, ah, keep the hood on." He pointed out. She didn't listen. He twitched.

"Thrity-seven seventy-two." Wrong. Now he crossed his arms and stared at his ceiling, foot tapping in agitation.

"Miss Warwick." Wrong again. He closed his eyes and begged the powers that were to strike him down if he said it. He couldn't say it. He never had, and he never would.

"_Zoe_." There it was. In a soft, compelling tone he didn't think himself capable of. What the hell was happening to him? This wasn't who he was- being nice to people was not Charles Foster Ofdensen. And yet, here they both were, and he was being- oh dear God- _compassionate._ He made a mental note to fall off of something very tall if he did it again.

It was the first time he'd ever called her by her first name. This finally grabbed her attention, and she looked up at him.

"Take off the mask, Zoe." He ordered in that same whisper. A voice in his head, repeating like a broken record, told him to regain control, but he felt himself slipping into a blissful sense of serenity, and suddenly, didn't want to stop it. Damn if these "emotion" things weren't sneaky.

One of her trembling hands finally reached up, after what felt like his millionth request, and the hood slipped off, revealing her puffy, drawn face. Air, however, came more easily, and she was able to still her crying a bit. She wore no makeup, and he noticed the youthful glow that had been in her skin was gone, replaced by a sort of pallor that only comes with age or wisdom. She looked run down and tired.

He could only think of one thing that would have caused such a deep-set, dramatic change, and did so with a twinge of guilt.

"You didn't kill him." He muttered, offering her a glass of brandy, which she gladly took, though she peered up at him curiously.

"W-what?"

"The man you fought at the training seminar. You, ah, didn't kill him." It was simple, really, and a weight he hadn't realized existed was removed from his chest.

"But… how?" Zoe looked stunned.

"I poisoned him." Was Charles' curt reply.

Images of the lingering Klokateer that had brushed by them before the big man had fallen flashed through her head, and suddenly it made sense. She wasn't a murderer.

Charles was.

Zoe rose, shakily, the top of her head barely reaching Charles' nose without her heels on. He couldn't read her, a fact which perturbed him. It felt like they just stood there forever, staring each other down.

"You. Are. A bastard." She hissed. Slowly she gained the strength to berate him, feeling her hate crash over her in waves.

"How could you? How could you do that to me? To _them_? Is this your genius at work? Do you let these people die and just ignore it? What about me? I don't even know where I've been or what I've been doing for the past two months of my life! Don't you feel anything? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

It was too much. She hated him in that instant, but after working around him and seeing what he dealt with firsthand, it had begun to make much more sense. Zoe crumbled, the last of her reserve exhausted and the effects of the Klokateer brainwashing (which had never really had a full hold, in the first place) finally giving into the trauma and falling away. She was sobbing again, this time uncontrollably throwing her arms around Charles and burying her face in his shoulder.

It was completely unexpected. He didn't know what to feel or how to act, so he just stood there, numbly, trying instead to focus on the pain in his leg. He lifted his hands helplessly, wanting to touch her, but not sure how to go about it. He watched his hands linger about her back, an thin impersonation of comfort, feeling unsure for the first time in a long time and not knowing what to do about it.

He felt her tiny fists crash into his chest again and again, beating out her revulsion against his tear-stained suit. The notion to restrain her entered his head, but he knew he deserved it, so he let her continue hitting him until all of her strength was gone.

More silence, although this time, the air had been cleared, and it was more comfortable. A wispy, skeletal calm settled over them both like a blanket, and Zoe inhaled, committing the scent of her employer to memory. She felt weightless, yet heavy, and began to think of things to say, her hands sliding around his body to curl into his lapel reflexively, and she stroked the expensive fabric absently.

"What, um…what happened to your knee?" She mumbled, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep standing up right where she was. It seemed like forever since Zoe had seen him with her own eyes. She'd been hiding somewhere on the sidelines of her life, and had only crawled out when she had felt Charles on top of her, and watched the sculpture plunge into the earth over his shoulder.

"I tackled you, remember?" He felt a tad sarcastic, a cover for his own churning feelings.

"No, not today. I've seen you baby it before. What happened to it?"

It was a story he didn't want to get into. Memories flooded his consciousness, memories of dying, being revived, and then dying again in a different way. He tensed, and she felt it.

"I, ah, got a little beat up working here one night." Was the only answer he could muster.

"Do you want me to try and fix it?"

He blinked.

"What?" Zoe finally pulled back, looking him in the eye. His head felt like it was missing, all of a sudden, and his knee throbbed.

"I said, do you want me to try and fix it?" He was bewildered, but nodded. Zoe dragged him over to the couch, sniffling, and sat him down, settling in beside him on the floor.

Charles cursed himself inwardly when she touched him. It was if a bomb had gone off underneath him. His heart beat out of his chest; an illogical part of him was convinced Zoe could see it pulsating against his ribcage. His face- and those damned ears of his- felt like a five alarm fire had been set ablaze on the inside of his cheekbones. He was sure he was blushing. On top of his, he was consciously fighting other physical urges that would've completely ruined her image of him, and his own image of himself. All she had done was lay a tender hand on his knee and squeeze gently. It hurt a little, but the pleasure soon outweighed the pain as she continued her peacemaking ministrations.

After about five minutes, Charles relaxed. A bit of chatter flew between them like old times. Oh, how he'd missed that. It was nice to have someone to talk to who actually listened to and understood what he was saying. He looked down. When did she get so…attractive? Last he remembered, she wasn't his type, and was no beauty on top of that. But now…Charles loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top collar button. He'd just had enough for one day. No more thoughts, no more movement, and certainly no more feelings. He was soon to be snoring as she massaged his leg, studying his face.

He was therefore blissfully unaware when she laid her lips against his kneecap and kissed it better.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The next three weeks were a whirlwind of activity for Dethklok and their managers, though not unpleasant. Charles, especially, was in a better mood than he had been in for nearly twenty years, with the exception of rare moments of inebriation.

It wasn't as though anything had happened between them romantically. Far from it. The morning after unmasking his assistant once again, Charles had awakened to a lack of joint pain, and a young woman snoozing with her head against his leg. It had made him feel slightly gleeful, seeing her first thing in the morning when he opened his eyes, though he would never admit it. Regardless, he'd scooped her up while a quirky little grin had sneaked its way onto his face, laid her out on the couch, and began his day quietly, while he waited for her to rise.

Generally, he felt all the stronger for having Zoe around and halfway back to normal. The trauma she'd suffered from assuming she was a cold-blooded killer was etched deeply into her personality, but more and more, her old self began to bubble through the still-stiff layers of his thankfully-broken brainwashing spell. He found that the more she healed and the more her personality recovered, the better and more efficient his own work became. It was as though a wall he hadn't known he was walking face first into had suddenly been removed, and he could continue on his way.

Charles felt an old side of his personality awakening. He thought he'd mashed it down and slain that beast many years ago, but here it was again, simmering just under the surface. In his mind, he'd been a regular pressure cooker with nowhere for the steam to go for quite some time. It had just kept building and making him more and more bitter, but, out of the blue, someone had finally lifted the lid. He still kept his empire running smoothly and held it in his steely grasp, working with all the crisp calculations of the most cunning serial killer, but behind that huge desk, a smile suddenly sat more often than not, usually tipped to one side and etching the gentle, becoming lines even deeper into his skin. Even his laugh was getting some exercise, which it very rarely ever did. It prompted him to do some almost unusual things.

He'd had to hide his most recent personal purchase carefully. He was on the fence about spending the money on himself, but…it _was_ coming out of his pocket, not theirs, and he'd wanted one for a long time, regardless of what they thought about it. He was a little nervous that if his boys found it in his room or his office, they might give into the express desire to eject it from their presence through the nearest window, stairwell, or elevator shaft.

But it did fit in nicely with his others.

* * *

Zoe slowly brought herself around. Charles was treating her...well, she wasn't quite sure how to describe it. He wasn't being easy on her, but neither was he quite the same person he'd been when they'd first met. She wasn't sure what to make of it all. It never occurred to her that she had been the catalyst that created the change. All she knew was that two months of her life were a blur, and it was his fault, but she could forgive him with a little effort. He had only been trying to protect his assets, after all.

The first day she'd shown her face to them again, she'd made the mistake of just walking in the door and asking Skwisgaar whether or not he'd used protection for his most recent group of hookups, so that she had a head start on paternity suits. They had all been on their way to the studio, after much poking and prodding from Charles _and_ Knubbler, and she'd practically crept up on them. Toki, being his overzealous self, had flung his arms around her, knocking them both off balance, and they'd both toppled into the hot tub fully clothed. She'd sputtered and surface, pulling the surprised Norwegian up by his hair before he forgot not to breathe.

Unfortunately for her, she'd chosen an off-white silk blouse that day. She felt much more like her old self after beating Murderface half to death with her clipboard after climbing out of the tub soaking wet- whoever told Charles that she was the one who sent the bassist to the infirmary for stitches would be next. And then she'd scurried out of there with the shreds of her pride falling away in the water that dripped from her clothes.

Aside from that little incident (for which she profusely apologized later), she slowly began to pick up the pieces that had been left on the floor of the seminar room in what felt like a lifetime ago. She ended up with her own desk settled in the anterior conference room attached to Charles' office, and devised a method of communication that kept him properly entertained.

What else was there to do when you already knew everything the middle school textbooks had to say, other than learn to make really great paper airplanes?

It started with just one, one day, when Charles been on the phone for over three hours, looking more and more perturbed as the minutes ticked by. She'd inched her foot out and cracked her door open, watching him with a satisfied smirk. It paid to have friends that worked at high-end companies- she could get them to transfer his calls around until he went off the deep end. It was simply her revenge, and she would have to remember to thank Mike again for the number of the guy she'd had drinks with once, in college.

Finally, she decided he'd had enough, but was too lazy to get up, and didn't want to break the comfortable silence between them, lest he shush her in the hopes that he would be taken off hold. So Zoe grabbed a piece of plain printer paper and a black Sharpie, jotted down a quick message, and slyly began to crease her note into shape. Charles wasn't paying attention to her one bit, and hadn't been all day. She hoped this would change that, as her tongue peeped out from between her lips and she eyeballed an angle.

And change it did. He almost jumped out of his skin (of course, it didn't look like it, from her end) when something white wafted into his peripheral vision. He looked up from his work with a slightly surprised look on his face, and Zoe watched as the airplane skidded to a gentle halt on top of his blotter. He looked up at her through the door, and she giggled, covering her mouth with her hand and then leaning forward on her threaded fingers. Charles unfolded the airplane good-naturedly and read the note.

_"I finalized the order you're waiting on through email two hours ago. :P"_

With a disgusted expression, Charles punched in another number on his phone and made a show of crumpling the airplane and tossing it in the trashcan. To his hidden amusement, another one came breezing through his office three minutes later. He leaned his face into his left hand and bemusedly watched it land in exactly the same spot as the last one.

_"You mad?"_

He shook his head and bit his lip, furiously writing something on a notepad, and then held it up for her to see.

_"Get back to work."_

Zoe saluted from her desk and appeared to dive back into her accounting, but once again, a neat, perfectly constructed paper airplane landed right in front of him. He blinked at it and couldn't stop the low, miffed chuckle that followed. He could both hear and see that she was definitely still writing. He read the message on the third airplane, the nose of it having been perfectly in alignment with the other two.

_"I could say the same to you. You're the one wasting time reading these. Now quit giving me that look and focus. What are you waiting for? Stop reading and get busy!"_

He had to read it twice, because he had indeed looked up again after the first two lines. He didn't even bother to write his response back this time, just stood and leaned over his desk.

"How are you doing that?"

His only reply was another giggle.

Charles didn't throw that airplane away, instead refolding it along the creases and leaving it on his desk. It amused and baffled him at the same time. He moved out from his chair and gathered his things, on his way to a briefing, and had just settled his hand on the doorknob when something lightly tapped him in the back of the head. He turned around, half expecting her to be standing there, but the only thing he saw was the flutter of white dive-bombing his feet.

"How did she even…" He muttered to himself when he noticed the angle between him and her door, and he stooped to pick up the last of the office aeronautics. This one was written in both a black and a red pen.

_"I could show you sometime. It's pretty easy. Have a good meeting."_

He didn't stop to ponder why he felt drawn to the fact that she'd signed the airplane with a little, very non-metal, red Sharpie heart. It may have been bleeding slightly from the ink seeping into the paper, which made it almost bearable, but it was still too ridiculously girly for him to openly a damn. That kind of fluffy nonsense had no place in his domain. And yet…

Perhaps it was just the toxic fumes from the markers getting to him.

He really hoped so.

* * *

Charles was half-tempted to ask her to show him how to make the perfect paper airplane (he'd never been good at them- they always fell at his feet when he threw them) as soon as he got back, but he'd been out dealing with a near-disaster from the Doritos company deciding to use Nathan's image as an endorsement on their new line of chips without permission, (the boots had been put to a few executives) and he'd waltzed in well after she'd gone to bed. He'd putted around his office for a bit, but really wasn't able to work anymore. He was too interested in getting back to playing with his new toy. So he pulled it from its hiding place and locked the door, pulling off his suit coat, taking off his tie, and rolling up his sleeves.

Charles settled himself on the edge of his desk, his feet dangling just a bit off the ground, and set the beautiful quilt-top acoustic on his lap. It had been a while since he'd owned one, and regardless of what the band thought of them, he liked them. This one was the most high end, custom, hand-tailored model money could buy. It fit against his body perfectly, and the shiny mother-of-pearl fret inlay shimmered while he tuned up by ear. He felt he was going to enjoy the Florentine cut-out as he fingered a few quick runs, getting a feel for the large dreadnought. It had a thick, rich tone, not too bright, but not exactly mellow, either.

Now the only question that plagued him was what he was going to play.

He started a few songs, but they didn't quite feel right for the moment. He kept making mistakes and his grand barres were buzzing. He was so used to his army of vintage Gibsons, it was hard for him to play anything else. It began to frustrate him. He leaned back, wrinkling his nose in distaste and looking around in the half-light cast by a single lamp and the exterior glow cast by the runner lights outside his window. His mind felt blank.

Sighing, he was just about to put the instrument back in its case and squirrel it away again, until the hand he was leaning back on brushed something on his desk. He picked up the airplane he'd left out on top the blotter, turning it over and over between his fingers, contemplating just how he'd gotten into this intra-office airplane affair with someone who, by all accounts, should've been stone dead by then. In the darkness, he took a moment to reflect on their recent behavior, but old habits died hard, and he kept himself from any real revelations, instead just musing over the fact that he didn't feel as alone anymore, even when surrounded by a sea of people willing to do anything for him.

It was…nice.

Maybe…just maybe, he actually had a friend.

How was that even possible? How the hell did someone like her end up befriending someone like him? It didn't make any sense. Why was she even here? What had possessed her to go to work for Crystal Mountain, anyway? He had wanted to ask for a long time, but never quite know how to do so without sounding too interested. She was just too much of a regular young lady for someone like him to be hanging around with outside work terms, and yet the proof of something just a little deeper than having an assistant was scrawled in dark ink across a bright white flying machine.

He made a bit of a noise in the back of his throat, putting the airplane down again and settling into another chord formation. He'd never really thought to ask why she was so nice to him. Maybe that was easier than all that personal junk. Maybe he should just start fresh with that in the morning.

Because he couldn't keep it out of his mind for any prolonged amount of time.

The song that had slammed into his brain like a trainwreck when he'd first felt the plane behind him suddenly escaped in the form of almost-perfect playing. He was pretty sure no one had heard that song anywhere in years. He didn't even know why he remembered the words, and if anyone caught him singing and playing it, he was sure to be sent packing. He couldn't help it, though. They weren't goofy teenagers, but it still sort of, almost fit his mood. He changed almost all of the words on the fly, but simply kept on rocking out, oblivious to the fact that his mind might've had a deeper reason for picking that song out of all the ones he could have remembered.

Tenor that he was, he wasn't so great at hitting the high notes anymore. He was really out of practice, but after a few scratchy notes, he flew threw them like they were nothing, and it actually made him happy.

_"Her name is Zoe, I have a dream about her."_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Yes, I did actually rewrite that entire Wheatus song ("Teenage Dirtbag," for those that don't know), and so, because this is a brand new chapter, I figure, aw, what the heck? Here ya go, Charles' rewritten version, "Corporate Douchebag."

_Her name is Zoe_  
_ I have a dream about her_  
_ Her planes remind me,_  
_ Got a meeting in half an hour_  
_ Oh how she rocks_  
_ In suits and ascots_  
_ But she doesn't know who I am_  
_ And she doesn't give a damn about me_

_ Cause I'm just a corporate douchebag baby_  
_ Yeah I'm just a corporate douchebag baby_  
_ Listen to some Dethklok now, baby with me_, _Oooh_

_ Her boss is a dick_  
_ And he knows that he's a tfool_  
_ And he'd simply kick_  
_ Her ass if she broke the rules_  
_ He's usually tough,_  
_ And awfully rough,_  
_ But nobody knows who he is_  
_ And he doesn't give a damn about this_

_ Cause I'm just a corporate douchebag baby_  
_ Yeah I'm just a corporate douchebag baby_  
_ Listen to some Dethklok now, baby with me_, _Oooh_

_ Yeeah, douchebag, but she doesn't know what she's missin'_  
_ Yeeah, douchebag, but she doesn't know what she's missin'_

_ Man, I feel so old,_  
_ At midnight I'm always lonely_  
_ Lo and behold_  
_ She's faxing over to me_  
_ This must be fake_  
_ My pen starts to shake_  
_ How does she know who I am_  
_ And why does she give a damn about_

_ I've got two tickets to Huey Lewis, baby_  
_ Come with me Friday, don't say maybe_  
_ I'm just a corporate douchebag baby like you_, _Oooh_

_ Yeeah, douchebag, but she doesn't know what she's missin'_  
_ Yeeah, douchebag, but she doesn't know what she's missin'_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The first of the three October Dethklok concerts passed with little for Charles to do except clean up after the typical path of destruction- a job he was quite used to. He'd given Zoe the night off, in fact, to get herself together for the party, her status of not attending swiftly recanted once she returned to showing her face instead of the hood. He was a vaguely wondering who or what she would end up going as, but refused to acknowledge that he might actually be excited to have something halfway fun to do.

He had given the orders to tailor his costume as well. He didn't see why he couldn't just show up to the party dressed as he always did, but his boys had been so insistent that he had spent the next morning having Zoe answer his calls while he was hopelessly entrapped in his tailor's tape measure. Words were said, bodies were mysteriously disposed of, and he now needed a new tailor on the double. All in all, another day at the office.

It was the second concert that posed problems. October thirtieth came around with a sneaky face, and Charles shipped himself and Dethklok off to England for a concert at the Tower of London. He was particularly pleased with the location of this show, having studied it in college for a history course, which was why he accompanied Dethklok to their concert.

The chopper touched down on Tower Hill, inside the city of London, mere hours before the concert. It killed a wild roving band of tourists when it missed the cordoned off landing point by a couple dozen yards. Charles was the first one out from the belly of the flying beast, and surveyed the area while breathing in the chilled air. He could hear the crowd gathered at the tower already chanting out the band name, and the blood curdling screams of whoever was being maimed in the pool of bodies at that particular moment, but otherwise, it was the picture of serenity.

And that was what bothered him.

He had that dastardly gut feeling again, that something was about to happen. So he poked his head inside the steel shell and addressed his boys.

"Don't, ah…don't get out just yet, you guys. Just sit tight for a while." With that, he grabbed hold of the giant sliding door and pulled it shut.

Charles tugged his coat closer to his lithe figure, appearing as though he were bothered by the cutting wind and the slight fog. Really, he was producing a small earbud from his inner pocket. Feigning an itch at his hairline, he placed the device in his ear, proceeding to walk around the memorial site for a few minutes.

Back at Mordhaus, Zoe watched the control center monitors from Charles' chair with mounting boredom, when a Klokateer cut through to her thoughts urgently.

"Ma'am, Lord Ofdensen is trying to connect through to us on the satellite comm system."

Immediately, Zoe sat up in the wide, throne-like chair, pulling her loose russet locks into a bun so she wouldn't be bothered by them.

"Patch him through."

The static clicked in his ear, and he leaned against a wall in the memorial, pretending to talk on his cell phone.

"Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, sir. Everyone make it in okay?" she was intrigued. She hadn't thought Charles would call just to check in on her, so she assumed something was wrong.

"Yes, everyone's fine. But, ah, I've got a bad feeling. Run a satellite sweep in the general vicinity for any high heat signatures or people in the area surrounding Tower Hill."

A Klokateer in the control room looked to Zoe, and she nodded. The largest monitor in the room suddenly became an array of various splotches of color, and she squinted, searching for anything that seemed out of the ordinary.

"Okay, sweep completed. Nothing particularly unusual. There are about four people on the premises with you that aren't part of your entourage, but it _is_ open to the public." She relayed to Charles, who was suddenly stewing with unease.

"Hm. Alright. We're gonna move the boys over to the stage now, so just keep an eye out. Something , ah, just doesn't feel right." Charles muttered, looking around nervously. He glanced over at the chopper- everything looked fine in that direction. He was getting too old for this, and wished now that he had stayed home. Whenever he _did_ make an appearance if something went wrong, two things happened: He always ended up running point, and always ended up getting hurt. He had already died once, and wasn't particularly thrilled at the idea of doing it again.

"Will do, sir." Zoe saluted the empty air in front of her, her mind running over any scenarios Charles hadn't prepped her for, which, she imagined, was a lengthy list.

"Yep. Over and out."

The crackle of white noise let her know that he had plucked the communication unit from his ear, and was now preparing the band to enter their magnificent stage at the Tower of London. She signaled to her communications specialist to cut the satellite uplink, and wrung her hands. If Charles felt something was going to go wrong, then it most certainly would before the night was over.

Through the dawn hours she stayed in the control center, a place she never expected to find herself when she'd first taken the job. It wasn't exactly cheery (then again, what part of Mordhaus was?), but she did her best to stay positive. Periodically Zoe had her techs run sweeps over the area, catching the heat signatures of thousands of fans that stormed London, but nothing that looked off. She checked her watch. The concert had begun by now, and she started to relax. Maybe Charles was just having an off day? It was in the late afternoon at Mordhaus, her eyes were slipping closed from a lack of interest when she noticed it.

"Wait." She barked to the Klokateer who was screening the area again. "Go back. What's that?" He repositioned the image and studied the screen.

"Human heat signatures, milady. Inside the Tower of London. By my count, seven unauthorized bodies. Perhaps just fans?" He offered, noting his superior's distress.

Zoe whipped out her new Dethphone, frantically composing a text while she gave orders. Her nerves already felt frayed. She didn't know if she could handle so much responsibility.

"I seriously doubt that. We sent an army of two hundred Klokateers to guard Dethklok. If seven average civilians managed to slip past them, then we're all collecting unemployment as soon as Lord Ofdensen gets back. Twenty-eight sixteen, pull up the architectural plans for the castle and the surrounding area. Image it if you have to. Eight sixty seven, put the snipers on red alert at the concert. No one gets within fifteen feet of the boys without authorization. Fire on anyone who does. Kill shots are acceptable. Ten forty-two, get us patched through to a better satellite immediately. I need visual…" She paused a moment, before sheepishly adding, "please and thank you, everyone" to her list of demands.

A twinge of pride welled up in her chest. She thought of Charles, imagining he would be pleased with her authority and quick decision making. But she couldn't hide her quivering knees as she stood up, hitting the 'send' button on her phone.

In London, an edgy Charles felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it out and opened the text message. It said:

_Crisis. Connect to Mordhaus immediately—Zoe _:(

Had the situation not just turned dire, he might have raised an eyebrow at the attachment of the typographic unhappy face, but he was far too torqued up to do so then. He wrenched the earbud out of his pocket again, jamming it in his ear and making his way backstage to where his personal attack team was set up, waiting for commands.

Thousands of miles away Zoe was struck by a sudden panic attack. She studied the glowing patches of orange and yellow moving higher up through the tower. It made no sense. What on earth were they doing in there? They couldn't reach Dethklok like that. The stage was built to specific standards to ensure it. She wracked her brains, thinking hard for a few silent minutes and sweating bullets from her nerves, when a bold of lightning went off in her head, and she realized what they were planning. Horror stricken, Zoe lost all décor, stripping off her suit coat and rolling up her sleeves. She heard the static first, and then the muffled and garbled sounds of the concert in the background.

"Sir. You there?"

She sounded so frenzied, he picked up the pace, forcing himself to be even faster in reaching his team.

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"People. Seven bodies. Moving higher in the Tower of London."

"Anything else?" He was already mentally prepared to have them executed. Slowly.

"I think they're planning to hack the stage control system and override it, sir. They've got something box-like with them giving off minimal energy…I think it's a laptop. Either that or a bomb." She tried to be as offhand about it as he would, but to no avail.

Charles rolled his eyes. Wouldn't there ever be _one_ concert where someone didn't try to get to Dethklok? They weren't that impressive in person. In fact, they were shy without booze, and a couple of them smelled funny. Nonetheless, he turned to his Klokateers.

"Get ready, boys. We've, ah, got some work to do."

* * *

He squinted into the darkness, the Klokateers behind him toting heavy artillery. Against the opposite wall, another split team of four men waited, chests heaving under their black tank tops. Charles lifted the hand that wasn't currently holding his Mac-10. He waved the beta team forward, and they moved, cross firing against the man they took by surprise. Charles heard Zoe's whisper in his ear, listening as best he could when the whiz of the muzzled weapons stopped whining in his ear.

"That's three, boss. Four more to go."

"You're in command. Where are we going?" He really hated having to rely on someone else, but he had no choice. And, secretly, if there was anyone he trusted enough to give him directions, it was her.

Zoe studied her three-dimensional outline of the grounds, thinking. Dethklok's stage was ingenious-it loomed menacingly over the white tower, the bottom of it resting on the tower's ramparts. It was encased in bullet proof plexiglass on three of four sides, the back side of the stage facing the Thames and made of solid steel. The problem was that the stage was mechanical. From the bottom there was a hatch for the engineers to crawl inside and work, which had a passcoded door. This was easily hacked when opened and plugged into. The other downfall was that the stage generator was attached to the back of the stage that faced the river, and if that shorted, access was granted. The glass would lift, and Dethklok would be an easy target.

All seven of the would-be assassins were attempting to infiltrate through the White Tower and enter through the bottom hatch. Charles was leading the alpha strike team, with beta team following closely. He'd sniped one personally, off the triforium in St. John's chapel, and his teams had gotten the others- one on the North face, and one in the small armory on the ground floor.

"All the rest are in the battlements, sir. Southern wall. Take your next left, and up the stairs."

She was intent on walking him through this as quickly as possible. Seeing as the space was so enclosed, the entire keep being a relatively small area to begin with, there was no room for error, or both Dethklok and Charles would die. Present on one monitor was her map of the tower, and on another, a real-time satellite visual of the area. Other, smaller monitors had rerouted traffic cameras and security cameras into watching Dethklok and the crowd, and she viewed them all with great care and attention.

Charles motioned his team forward, and they all worked their way up through the second story and then split, each team taking a corner battlement. It was easy pickings, from there, gunfire removing the threat from the area.

Charles wiped his brow after gunning down two men. The queen would not be happy about the bullet holes and new blood in her tower, he mused, but he wasn't really concerned.

"Did we get them all?"

She checked her screens, a little jumpy.

"Negative. One's on the tower roof."

Charles motioned his team back and stealthily leaned against the wall nearest the window that looked out over the roof. It was nearly pitch black due to the overhanging stage, but he could just make out a figure moving amongst the darkness.

Without a thought as to his knee, Charles clamored onto the window ledge and then jumped off, landing skillfully on the roof. The sound of his impact didn't much matter over the blaring requiem that was Dethklok's second to last song. He saw an opportunity to engage as the assassin lifted a grappling gun and fired at the bottom of the stage, the claws digging into its shadowy underbelly.

Charles ran, coming up behind the man and overpowering him. He wasn't a fan of guns, no matter how good of a shot he was. He preferred hand-to-hand combat or the noble art of fencing, if he had to fight at all. With a calculated application of pressure, he snapped the man's neck by grabbing his head and twisting in two directions at once, the suddenly limp body hitting the roof with a thud. Charles didn't want to leave the body where it might not be discovered for a while (this was a historical area, after all), so he grabbed the nameless figure by his ankle and dragged him over to the edge, rolling him up and over the blocky archer's wall.

"Seven confirmed kills. Threat neutralized. Can we, ah, call it a night?"

In the familiar comfort of Mordhaus, Zoe heaved a sigh of relief, mentally patting herself on the back for a job well-done. This was the sort of slaughter she could condone even before working with Dethklok. It was self-defense. Those assassins had made a choice to try to hurt someone, and so they had opened themselves up to the same counter-treatment. She was smiling, ready to tell him to pack it in and get his ass back to safety, when out of nowhere, the sound of a single gunshot rang so loud in her ears over the satellite uplink audio that she felt they must have been bleeding.

"Charles? Charles!" She screamed, ignoring protocol, searching the grainy monitor that gave her eyes on the outside of the tower. The night-vision filter helped from a distance, but specific human details were lost.

There was static and background noise- cheering from the overzealous crowd, it sounded like. An agonizingly long minute passed. Unexpectedly a grunt, and a scraping noise.

"I'm, ah, well…alive." He groaned, grabbing his left arm to stop the bleeding.

"Are you hit?" Her voice quavered in his ear, and he felt the sharp twang of homesickness.

"Grazed. Just caught my shoulder. I thought you said there were, ah, seven?"

Zoe became enraged. Not only had she screwed up, nearly getting Charles killed, but someone had dared to fire on her boss. It spelled certain death.

"I thought you said threat neutralized." She returned hotly.

"Where is he?"

Zoe roughly pushed a Klokateer out of his chair, sitting down and zooming out on the Tower. Suddenly she gasped.

"Holy shit."

"I take it that's bad?" Charles winced. His shoulder throbbed, but his arm was still useable, and it was a walk in the park compared to past injuries.

"Yeah. You've got a serious sniper on your hands."

"I reiterate. _Where_ is he?" Charles was not in the mood for games as he removed his tie and wrapped it around the wound, a makeshift tourniquet.

"Charles, he was hiding at Traitor's Gate. He's now at the top of Wakefield Tower. I'm so sorry, I should have-"

Charles cut her babbling apology off, crawling over to where he had felled the seventh assassin. He had been the proprietor of a sniper rifle, which the CFO now grabbed and checked the remaining shots.

"Zoe. I've, ah, got one shot left, and I can't see that far. You've got to be my eyes. Tell me when and where to aim."

He crawled back over to the corner where he could best angle the gun towards Wakefield tower. This would be a shot for the trophy wall, if it worked out.

She trembled. Yet again she found herself entrusted with personally ending another man's life. It _was_ different, though. He had already injured her boss. There was a price to pay for that. Still, she felt it was a job better entrusted to a true Klokateer, instead of her wishy-washy constitution.

"Charles, I really don't think I can do this."

"Do it or Dethklok dies."

"But, Charles-"

"Ah, Zoe, we don't have time for this right now…" He muttered as a thankfully missed shot flew past him, about five feet off. Indeed, he could see a reddish light pulsating atop Wakefield, and with a jolt, he knew what it was.

"He's got an EMP."

"A what?"

"An electro-magnetic pulse. If he detonates it, it'll knock out the power to the stage, and the barricade will fail."

She squared her shoulders, knotting her hands behind her back. It was now or never. _"Do it for Dethklok,_" she told herself, not letting the parallel voice screaming _"do it for Charles"_ distract her from the goal.

She focused, watching the burly figure on Wakefield pace with his gun. She switched views, then, to Charles, and then once more, zooming out and digitally tracing the trajectory from the barrel of Charles' rifle to the assassin, factoring in wind speed and other various elements to the mix.

"Five centimeters to the right, two centimeters up, Charles."

He positioned the gun, waiting with bated breath.

A pause.

"Fire." Zoe said, crossing her fingers and squeezing her eyes shut.

Charles squeezed the trigger less than a split second later, breath held and both eyes open.

Zoe zoomed in on the top of Wakefield tower, afraid to look. But there was the man, dead, a perfect head shot having laid him flat out on the roof. The blood ran everywhere, black on her green-tinted screen.

"Crisis averted." She whispered, a cold grin adorning her heart-shaped face.

"Positive?"

"Positive."

He relaxed, drawing a cigar from his shirt pocket and lighting it up just as Dethklok finished their set. However, he heard shots ring out, and then the crowd broke into pandemonium. Confused, he glanced over the edge of the tower, to find one of the Klokateer snipers had gotten spooked and began shooting into the fans. The others followed suit, like lemmings, assuming there was some unseen threat. Blood soaked the grass and spattered against the walls.

"Typical." He murmured, blowing a practiced smoke ring.

Zoe rolled her eyes, turning away from the senseless carnage she pretended wasn't real.

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"Come home, and bring our boys with you."

He smiled into the night, adjusting his glasses and dusting himself off, trying to make himself as presentable as possible.

"Nice work tonight. Over and, ah, out."

Charles retreated through the tower, bringing the remainder of his team with him and posting them beside the band as they dismounted the stage. He threw on his discarded coat, exactly where he had left it, and smoothed his hair before turning to face them. It looked as though nothing had happened at all, and they were happily oblivious.

As the band and their manager make the short climb up the hill- Charles typically quiet, but the band obnoxiously loud- he heard a deep, crunching noise that seemed to bubble up from the very air, and turned around halfheartedly to look. Something had knocked out part of the stage's electrical system anyway- probably a Klokateer gunshot, he mused. The band turned to look as the stage toppled off its perch above the tower of London and plunged into the building below and the remaining fans and Klokateers. In mere seconds, the entire structure- boundary walls and all- had crumpled to dust and leveled the entire area. All six of them nodded to themselves and shrugged as they climbed into the Dethcopter. Charles shook his head as the sirens approached in the distance. He still had work to do- this was pretty bold, for a fan attack, and he needed to look into it- but overall, things had gone as well as they could have.

Oh yes. It had been a grand Mischief Night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

The rise of Halloween night was quick. The third Dethklok concert did not require Charles' services, and he spent the day recovering from his bullet wound (which Zoe had personally cleaned out and patched up, cursing him out all the way and fussing over him like a mother over her baby with a scraped knee. Charles couldn't decide if he was flattered at the attention or disgusted).The show ended at about ten at night, which was when the Halloween party was scheduled to begin.

Dethklok returned to their stronghold in high spirits, ready to party. Mordhaus had been decked out in as much macabre decoration (more than usual) as it could handle- it was a medieval wonderland, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Guests began to pour in, and anybody at the doors that was unsavory was badly beaten.

The costumes of the guests ranged from hideous to exemplary, a mixture of professional grade and cardboard boxes. Dethklok was already in their outfits by the time they returned to Mordhaus. Murderface had decided to remain as Captain Hook, an oddly dashing change of character that actually caught the attention of a few women. Nathan was dressed as an Indian chief, amusedly toting a leathery scalp around and showing it off. Charles didn't even want to know whether it was real or fake. Pickles had happily dubbed himself 'Count Drunkula,' a wasted cross between his old Snakes n' Barrels clothes and a vampire, and he stuck to sipping bloody mary's all night in the spirit of the holiday. Perhaps the funniest of all were Toki and Skwisgaar, however. Skwisgaar had dressed up as a Nordic god, and Toki, not to be outdone, dressed up as _Skwisgaar_ dressed up as a Nordic god, complete with the wig he had worn in Thunderhorse, taping his mustache with flesh colored costume tape, and the exact same costume. Charles couldn't help but sigh when he saw them, simply raising an eyebrow and suppressing a grin. When Toki was discovered by Skwisgaar, the ensuing squabble resulted in shock, childish bickering, and a few very confused female fans.

The playlist for the night ranged from Dethklok songs to all corners of the metal world, and was currently being DJ'd through GWAR's "Let Us Slay." As Charles flitted about the RecRoom, keeping one eye on his boys and one eye on everyone else, he mused that it was a catchy tune, but not something he could dance to. Not that he was much of a dancer to begin with, but when properly prompted with booze, could hold his own in certain situations.

He realized he hadn't seen Zoe yet that evening as the once steady-stream of guests through the door slowed to a trickle a couple hours after the party officially began. He moved to stand behind his boys, a regular wallflower in his own domain.

Nathan eyed him with cool approval.

"You look good, Ofdensen."

"Thank you, Nathan." The successful concert had obviously put the frontman in fair form, as he offered the compliment.

"Wha're'ya s'posed ta be?" Pickles slurred, already well on his way to passing out under less-than-safe conditions. Charles self-consciously adjusted his mask.

"This probably won't, ah, mean anything to you boys, but I'm the Phantom of the Opera."

As expected, he was met with five sets of blank stares.

"Yep. Yer right. It doeschen't." Murderface offered, scraping the tip of his hook hand against the fin-like baluster of the stairs, as the five band members were surveying the jovial carnage prior to diving in, making sure everything was to their liking. Before Charles could answer, however, he felt a hand descend on his good shoulder, and a soft female voice beat him to the reply.

"He's a character from a novel about a horribly disfigured man who was the contractor of an opera house in France. The man falls in love with one of the singers at the opera house, kidnaps her, and makes several attempts to force her to fall in love with him, including one where he captures and tortures her real romantic interest and another man, and then threatens to blow the entire opera house up. However, in the end, the phantom experiences a change of heart, letting everyone go, and then his death is described in the newspaper a few days later."

She had left some major portions of the tale out, editing it so Dethklok would be able to understand. Still, though, as Charles turned around and looked up at the stairs to add in a few missing parts, his jaw nearly hit the floor at the sight that held him captive against his will.

She was breathtaking, to him, and he couldn't stop himself from letting it register on his face. Zoe descended the last few stairs, her gown gently sliding along behind her.

"Dat sounds sort of metals." Skwisgaar reflected, fiddling with his horned helmet. Zoe nodded.

"It's totally metal, Skwis." She smiled, throwing a glance over at Charles, who was still gawking like a child on his first trip to the zoo.

"And who are you?" Nathan cocked his head at her, sizing her up.

"Marie Antoinette." Charles answered for her, his voice breaking just slightly. Dethklok, not wanting another history lesson, simply nodded and then began to drift off into the throngs of party-goers, the volume of the shin-dig going up another thirty decibels at least.

When they were by themselves in the corner, Zoe placed a finger under Charles' chin and gently closed his slightly gaping mouth.

"I take it you like?" She gestured to her outfit. He nodded mutely.

Her skin was already alabaster, so she barely had to powder her face and neck. Her russet hair was tied up under the bouffant platinum blond wig, but did not detract from her stunning change of pace- at least, not for him. The tell-tale powder blue French revolution dress engulfed her entire frame, though she handled it with grace. He couldn't think of anything to say regarding her getup, so he simply spouted the first reaction that came to mind.

"Ah…how much did that, ah, cost?" She took his blunder in stride, a secret satisfaction swelling deep in her being. So he _was_ affected, after all. And here she thought she'd been imagining it.

"Less than 50 dollars." Again, shock overpowered the CFO, who did a double take, and wished he hadn't.

"How?" Zoe shrugged, passing him by and moving to stand on his right side, skirts swirling about as she did so. Charles could smell her perfume, intoxicating and warranting him to stay at arms length in tandem. Her chocolate eyes surveyed the crowd peaceably, watching as the other attendees lost all control at the hands of alcohol, drugs, and famous rock stars.

"My mother deals in theater costumes in her spare time, and I knew she had this reproduction already in storage. I just paid for her to send the whole thing out here."

He jumped when he felt her fingers tugging at his sleeve.

"Well, come on, _Erik_. Don't just stand there like a lump all night- come have some fun!"

Charles could have laughed hysterically.

"I don't have time for, ah, fun. I was here for the boys, but now that you're here, I'll leave them in your capable hands and get back to work."

He was gone before she had time to blink, and she stood there, all alone in the corner, lonely in between throngs of people, and wondered if she had deceived herself again.

* * *

November first was fast upon them when she retreated from the party, having seen it go much too far for her liking. She was the only one in attendance who wasn't stoned or drunk, and was no longer having much fun.

Zoe had already disentangled the wig from her own hair, dislodging it from the bun she wore and letting it drift around her shoulders. She hefted her plethora of skirts as she wandered about Mordhaus, deep in thought and trying to work out for herself what she really wanted out of that evening. Eventually, her feet made the decision for her, well aware that there really was no question about it in the first place.

When she consciously decided to check on Charles, she was already more than halfway to his office, so she slipped out of her heels and ran, needing to release some pent up energy and wanting to get there before she had time to regret what she was feeling. As she neared his open door, the sweet and plaintive strains of Mozart's _Lacrimosa_ reached her ears, slowing her clipped gait down to a walk.

He was at the window, still in costume and nursing a glass of his beloved brandy. She knew he wasn't oblivious to her presence just inside the door, but he didn't openly acknowledge her standing there. Bravely she made her way over to the window, where he surveyed the land in silence.

"I didn't know you liked Mozart." She set her heels down on his desk and waited slightly behind him.

"I don't, in particular, but _Lacrimosa_ has always been, ah, a favorite of mine."

Zoe fingered the gold filigree of the draped necklaces that hung between her breasts, and removed them, setting them beside her heels.

"So, are you having fun getting all that…_work_…done up here?" Charles turned his head and glared at her out of the corner of his eye, ignoring the sarcasm.

"You should be with the boys. You never know what's going to happen." His tone was frigid, and he wouldn't grace her with another glance. It infuriated her.

"You know what? No. Do it your damn self." Her sudden coldness stung him, and she knew it. Regaining her self-control, Zoe softened and sighed, grabbing the decanter of brandy from his desk and refilling his glass. As she did so, she took a deep breath and pressed herself against his back, her right hand gently resting on his upper arm. He didn't move, didn't stiffen or relax- he just stood there, studying the stars.

She felt bold and weak, all at the same time. Zoe put the crystal container back on his desk, and then tempted death, wrapping her arms around Charles from behind and pressing her cheek betwixt his shoulder blades. Minutes ticked by, and neither of them moved.

"What, ah… what are you doing?" He didn't know if it would come out as a whisper or a shout, but Charles managed to keep his voice steady and monotone. She twisted the gold watch chain that was connected to his blood red vest around her finger.

"Listening to the whirr of your robot heart." She squeezed him a little tighter around the middle.

It had gone too far, he knew. The little things about him he had allowed her to see had ultimately given him away. Things like stretching in the morning, running his fingers through his hair, tapping his pen when he was drowning in boredom- these were the quirks about Charles Foster Ofdensen that assured his humanity. They kept him sane, yet he hid them from everyone else in order to protect his reputation and his empire.

Except her, and that was a problem.

With a huff, he disentangled her from his body, and her hands fell limply to her sides. He had half a mind to fire her on the spot, regardless of the consequences. But when he turned around, he _couldn't_, physically _couldn't_ make himself reprimand her. The words he had said so many other times to so many other people would not come out. And he detested himself for it.

It was something straight out of a fairy tale, he realized, something impossible and improbable all at the same time. He was the beast, she was the beauty. She felt, he didn't. She cared too much; he couldn't care at all. She saw him, saw_ through_ him, and that was a soul-rending thought. She knew everything that comprised him, what made him tick, and what set him off, not just because she was more observant that most of the people he dealt with, but because she was more like him than anyone he'd ever met. In essence, she was the good version of himself, and she completed him.

It was terrifying.

Zoe watched Charles from mere inches away, looking up into his face and observing the torment that went on inside his head. He might have been adept at hiding what he was thinking or feeling on that tired face, but not so much in his eyes. No one could hide things there. It was those hazel eyes she now studied, scrutinizing a lifetime of clawing his way to the top of the ladder, but somehow getting left behind in the process. It was a dirty job, yes, but someone had to do it, and she knew there was no one better suited to the task of a mechanical lifestyle than he.

Charles raised his hand to push her away, but she caught him by the wrist, and he didn't put up a struggle.

"I'm, ah, tired, and I'd like to go to bed, so if you'd, ah, excuse me…"

He tried to turn, tried to get away from her, but it was of no use. She was ingrained in him, now, and with a start he wondered how someone so bold and energetic could have slipped past his countless defenses to get under his skin like that, utterly undetected and despicably hated. It was the same thing as when he had realized just how deeply he cared about his boys, when he had been away from them, and when they had run away from him. And yet it was different, smaller, more concentrated, but a much more monstrous beast.

"Take off the mask, Charles."

Oh, how the tables had turned. How ironic. He didn't tremble or so much as think about the fact that he was listening to her when he pried the white phantom mask from his skin. It dropped by his foot, and he returned to limply standing with his back turned to the window, staring stubbornly over Zoe's head.

The hand that traced the faded, puckered scar that started at his left temple and cut deep reminders down his cheek was received with a tense silence. It slid down his face, unobscured by his lack of glasses. Charles swallowed hard as the hand continued on its mission, its owner peering up at him curiously from under luxuriously thickened lashes. He could get through this, he assured himself. He was a robot. Nothing got to him. Nothing bothered him. He was the backbone of Dethklok. If he crumpled, they all did.

She searched his skin with her fingertips, gliding over his collarbone and down his chest. Her expression was a wash of sadness and resignation- to what, he didn't know.

"How's your shoulder?" She mumbled, running the tip of her index finger along his left bicep.

"It's, ah, fine, thank you." He frowned, and her hand meandered back up to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking the lines around his mouth that were set so starkly in a face that should have still suffered the passing plague of youth.

"Hmm. And the knee?"

"I'm _fine_." He assured, trying to make her stop trying to ruin him without having to resort to something serious, and to mentally alleviate his pressing physical need he knew she _had_ to have been aware of at that point. Her attire, the low cut front and the tight waist of the dress, didn't help him when he stole a downward glance. He hated being so vulnerable, and it made him feel ill, even when pangs of pleasure shot through him as he watched her breathe. The lace and ribbons only added to the sick torture she was putting him through, and though he was normally not an imaginative person, he couldn't stop the vivid images from coming to his mind then.

"I see. So you don't need any help?" Zoe murmured, cocking her head innocently to the side.

"No."

"Not even a little bit of… assistance?" Charles' eyes fluttered shut when she stressed the word _assistance_ cunningly, shifting her leg under the dress to brush against the lower front of him. Her smile was coy.

"Ah, no, everything's under control. You can, ah, go back to the party, or go to bed now."

Zoe exhaled heavily. This wasn't working. He responded well enough physically, but he was still fighting her every step of the way. God knew they both needed it, even if it meant nothing in the end. He continued to babble on, trying to capture control of the situation.

"H-how were Skwisgaar and Toki when you, ah, left? They weren't, ah, trying to kill each other in a groupie war, were they? Was Murderface bleeding at all? What about Nathan? I-"

"Charles!" She hissed, surprising him when she took him by the sides of his head with both hands and forced him to look at her.

"Just stop, okay? Everyone is fine. No worse than usual. Trust me- otherwise I would be right there trying to help them. This house is filled with over a thousand sober Klokateers who would die for Dethklok. They are watching from the party room and from the control center and from all over the place. If something was wrong with any of the boys, we would already know. Please, just relax. Please? I really think… I think you need this."

He was bitter, not trying to disguise the wave of emotion that knitted his brow together and drew his lips into a taut line.

"No, I, ah, don't."

"Yes, you do. Why won't you indulge yourself, just this once?" She was pleading, and he couldn't look at her.

"Because I can't. It's not in their best interest."

He didn't expect her to laugh, but laugh she did- a sharp, hollow, angry sound- and his cheeks reddened.

"You won't have sex with me because it's not in _Dethklok's_ best interest? Like hell it's not!"

Charles was stunned, and silently berated himself for wanting to hear her out. The woman tended to have both logic and reason, and that was something he never had been able to resist.

"Charles. You're uptight, stressed, and constantly under pressure. If you don't relax somehow, you won't be around long enough to celebrate their twenty-fifth band anniversary! Please, just do this for them, if not for yourself or…" She fell silent, looking away from him before he realized, on her end, at least, it wasn't just about baser instincts.

It made sense, and he felt himself slipping, falling faster and faster into a trap he would never escape if it snapped shut on him. This was not him, he tried to assure himself. He was suffering some sort of head and chest injury and would be able to control himself soon enough. Maybe the bullet that had grazed him was poisoned. Either way, it didn't matter. He stared down at her dumbly, his breathing growing more labored by the second. Damn her, and, while he was at it, damn every female in the world, just for existing! He knew she was right, but yet had concocted the story to try and seduce him. Her half-truth was as plain as the surprisingly delicate on her face. She dared to press her whole body against him, standing on tip toe, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her forehead pressed against his. Her hands stroked the sides of his face, and he could feel her quickened breath all over him. It was all too much.

"Just let me love you, just this once. Please? _Charlie_?"

That tore it. Game over. He was down for the count as he witnessed the final shreds of his self-control blowing away in the high winds of his mind. He was on her in a split second, having turned and pinned her to thick, bullet-proof panoramic window that had been behind him. Charles hesitated just a moment, green eyes frantically searching brown for any hint of some sort of hidden agenda, but finding none, he leaned in and kissed Zoe fervently, want and need fueling the actions he was fully aware, but yet barely conscious of.

He abused her full lips with a passion he hadn't known was in him. His hands tangled in her auburn hair, and guiltily felt the ruined flesh on the back of her neck in the shape of a gear. She felt him touch it, knew it would bring him to his allegedly better senses, so she yanked on a lock of his own chestnut tresses, causing him to growl deep in his chest and bringing his attention back to the task at hand.

A growing sense of urgency caused his kisses to become short nips down her naked neck, and Zoe mewled in his ear, driving him nearly off the brink of sanity. She held him close when his hands roamed her body, something he hadn't really taken the time to do to a woman since college.

Sure, the occasional groupie that wanted to experience a power trip broke off from Dethklok and tried to drag him into bed, and if he was feeling prideful or celebratory, he would allow it, but it was quick, congenial, almost like someone trying consciously to give a firm handshake at a first-time business meeting. Even during his nine month absence, he had been too busy to indulge more than twice. This wasn't something he allowed himself. Period.

So Charles worked with the ardor of a man who had long been condemned to stale bread and stagnant water, and now witnessed a grand feast laid out before him. It was all Zoe could do to keep from screaming, already in ecstasy. Her skin felt electric. She was his for the plundering, his for the taking, and she didn't mind one bit. Her slim fingers fumblingly worked at the buttons on his tailcoat, stripping it off him thoughtlessly, where it landed in a heap on the floor, and she began to undo the watch chain without looking- a difficult task.

"Just rip it. I have another." He said in her ear breathlessly, and heard the resounding tinkle of small metal bits showering down onto the floor. She made quick work of his vest and cravat, all to follow the tailcoat. As she undressed him, however, feeling his fingers toy with the ruffles just below her waist, a sobering thought entered her head.

"Charles, the dress."

"What about it?" He was lightheaded, filled with lust, his tongue flicking against the exposed meat of her shoulder, and now that'd he'd started all this madness, he didn't feel like stopping because of an article of clothing.

"It belongs to my mother's theater troupe. It's only on loan to me; I can't let anything happen to it."

He did stop, then, undecided. She met his hazel gaze, panting, and a quiescent smile transformed his face. His office was cold, impersonal. It wouldn't do to take his prize right there, anyway. She deserved better. Comfort, somewhere private, at the very least. They both did.

"Follow me," he whispered, taking her by the hand and nearly dragging her to his room. The door slammed shut behind him, the only sound to be heard through the upper levels of Mordhaus for quite some time after that.

* * *

A drunken vampire stumbled, laughing at an unheard joke. Pickles picked his way around, having been designated to find both of Dethklok's managers since he wasn't in the mood to take any women back to his room, still partially lost in what felt like ancient history. The redhead leaned in Charles' office's doorjamb, catching his breath. His murky eyes surveyed the clothing carnage in confusion for a moment. High heels, gold, and pearls draped over Charles' desk. Half of his Halloween costume on the floor, surrounded by the shimmering links of a broken single Albert watch chain. A series of smudged handprints on the window, just visible when Pickles swayed and caught the right light. And the faint, but noticeable smell of sex was musky and inviting in the air. He smiled, and continued on his merry, smashed journey, raising the bottle he was nursing in salute.

"Good fer you, Chief. Good fer you."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

It was ten-thirty in the morning, and he actually didn't care. He assumed the world hadn't ended, since he was still breathing, and nothing bad seemed to have befallen anyone.

Charles blinked at the digital clock face, sleep still weighing heavily on his eyelids. Oh, how _good_ he felt! He couldn't believe it. All of his troubles, every bit of stress and pain and worry- gone. It was a little piece of heaven that had descended on him inside the steel walls of Mordhaus, and he hoped it would never leave.

The weight on his chest shifted, and a waterfall of hair tickled his bare skin. Zoe made herself more comfortable on top of him from within the confines of sleep, sighing. He felt her fingernails scratch him lightly, no pain involved, as her hand curled against his side. The exhausted CFO smiled into the darkness of his room, reveling in just how warm he felt. Every inch of skin-on-skin contact at that moment was practically burning with a heat that was far from unpleasant. In his head he relived every moment of the night before, remembering and swearing to himself that no matter what happened, he would never forget.

Because he felt _alive_.

She moved then, her legs entangled with his, and stretched. Pretty brown eyes opened, and then squeezed shut again when she yawned. And then, Zoe smiled softly, almost angelically glowing in the gentle lamp light that bathed them both.

"Good mornin', Charlie." She said, crawling up the length of his torso to kiss him playfully. She was a hot mess. Naked, her hair fell around her shoulders in tangles and knots that he knew would take quite a while to work out. He looked down the length of their bodies, drinking in the skin she hadn't been afraid to show him, then or now.

"Mmm…Morning." He nuzzled her neck, a dangerously different person behind closed doors. Charles let his teeth scrape against an already purple love bite, and Zoe tipped her head back, swooning. She lifted his head, pressing him harder against the lavish set of teeth marks, her hands receiving their fill of his already mussed hair.

"Charles, this may come as a shock to you, but I am _not_ the most important meal of the day." Her words were breathy; already she was being overcome by a heady warmth from her toes to her scalp.

He had her on her back in the span of a single heartbeat, smugly smirking up at her as he lazily traced patterns into the pleasantly surprising soft skin of her breasts with his tongue. He brought himself closer, nose to nose with her, and she inhaled, loving their mingling scents.

"Ah, says who?" And with that, he lost them both between the sheets once more.

It was high noon when Charles emerged, straightening his tie and hoping to God that the hickies on his neck were below his collar. Behind him, Zoe peered out from the door in his bathrobe, wiping the tiredness from her eyes with an almost childlike quality.

"Do we _have_ to?" She whined, grabbing him by the back of his suit. He turned around, catching her up in his arms and smiling, not sure if he would give a damn or not if someone was to enter the hall just then. He was on his own personal cloud nine, and sure as hell didn't want to come down just yet.

"Yes, we have to. Or, at least, _I_ have to. If you, ah, want the day off, you can have it."

Zoe rolled her eyes, pulling him in for a quick kiss.

"You did good work, champ. But I don't need _that_ much recovery time." He grinned, and then she let him go, leaning against the wall with shaky legs as she watched her new lover disappear into the day's work across the corridor.

Indeed, he did disappear. He threw himself at his work after clearing the remainder of their clothes from the night before out of his office, his anal-retentiveness penance for having broken one of his personal commandments. Though, not being instantly struck down by lightening was, he imagined, a good sign.

Part of his mind wondered if they would continue this strange state of affairs, or if it was a one time deal, and it nagged at him all afternoon until Zoe, who had spent the day directing Klokateers in the order of post-party clean up and tallying damages, appeared in his office at dusk. He didn't have to worry. She settled herself on his lap when he beckoned her closer, watching all the love in the world flood her eyes and praying he could keep it there forever.

That was how their tryst began.

* * *

Zoe couldn't believe it. It was truly unfathomable. She just kept asking herself- how?

She was just a lawyer-turned-music-management-specialist. And the only two reasons for that were because it paid well and she had a good ear for music appreciation. She had always wanted to be walking the razor's edge, somehow; a far cry from what was expected of her by her friends and family, getting into the industry seemed the perfect way to do just that. It was practical, yet chic. Fun, yet demanding. All in all the job was perfect, and no one in her family could say she'd gone overboard with her need to rebel.

If only they could see her now.

All day the first day, as she walked about with a clipboard and PDA in hand, a tiny, self-righteous smirk kept sliding onto her face. This was rebellion far beyond her wildest dreams. She was sleeping with the manager of Dethklok! And it wasn't as though he had asked her to- _she _had seduced _him_ because _she_ wanted him! It was ridiculously impossible, and yet, there she was, sore from the night before and covered in little marks and bruises that proved she proudly bore the mark of the elite few upon her.

Zoe thought about calling Melinda and telling her such juicy gossip, but she could just envision her best friend on the other end of the line, shaking her head and replying, "no, no, darling, I think you're a little confused. We're talking about Charles _Ofdensen_. You're sleeping _for_ him, not _with_ him." Plus, it wouldn't be fair to Charles. She had a feeling this was the sort of thing he would kill to keep secret. Then again, nearly everything personal fell under that category.

And, of course, there was that other point-of-interest on her internal daily minutes. Those sweet little butterflies that fluttered about inside her whenever she thought about him. It wasn't the sex that caused that, although the sex was phenomenal. It was the way he chewed on his bottom lip while he was knee-deep in accounts payable and receivable. It was the way he sometimes couldn't stop himself from singing along to whatever music was playing. It was in the way he tapped his pen and fiddled with his cufflinks and scuffed the toe of his shoe when he was impatient and that dorky little half-smile whenever he was extremely pleased…

Zoe stopped short in the middle of an order, and a Klokateer walked into her from behind. But she didn't care. She didn't flinch when Nathan blew up a portion of the kitchen or Murderface started an electrical fire in his room or when a couple fans snuck in and tried to sneak off with Skwisgaar's wardrobe. She just got through her day. She wrote an email to her parents telling them how she was doing and asking how things were back in Oklahoma, like she did in the middle of every week, sent her recently worn suits off for dry cleaning, tidied her living space, worked on the daily crossword, completed her course work online for the day (because she was still trying to move up in the world, no matter what), and then ran the whole way across Mordhaus to his office, her eyes lit up from the inside out. When she got there just as the sun was setting, she practically skidded into his lap, giggled a bit, and then pulled him in for a kiss he was playfully reluctant to give.

Because the butterflies had turned into full-sized California condors pecking at her intestines and slowly forcing her to rupture and bleed out during the course of her day, and the only way to get them to settle down was to see him again.

That was how her love began.

* * *

Before he could focus on her, though, Charles had to deal with something that had been on his mind for a while. He let Zoe snuggle in and hold his laptop while he read over her shoulder, half-aware that his chin fit perfectly over her collarbone. In fact, every part of him fit perfectly against every part of her. It was amusing, in a hazy, 'say again, I'm not quite listening' sort of way.

"That attack on the Tower still bothering you, hm?"

He nodded mutely, eyes flitting at warp speed across the information he was pulling up from the database his loyal servants had built.

"So…what makes you think it wasn't a bunch of crazy fans? I mean…who else is there?"

He looked up, keeping his surprise hidden.

"I never said it wasn't a fan attack." A bunch of warning signals went off in his brain, and everything tensed. Zoe rolled her eyes and swatted at one of his hands, which was gripping her waist a little too tightly for comfort, seemingly of its own free will.

"Take a chill pill, killer. I need my spleen intact, thanks."

"But how did you-"

"You talk in your sleep."

Charles blushed hotly and looked away, ashamed and mortified at the same time. Zoe laid a comforting hand over his as he tried to slide her out of his lap. He glanced up at her, confused. She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose.

"It's okay. I get it. And I don't blame you." Zoe murmured softly.

He sighed, relief and determination sinking in. Closing his eyes, Charles took off his glasses and pressed his face into her shoulder, feeling her free hand run through his hair gently.

"I'm sorry. It's just… trust…it, ah… it might take some time. I understand if you, ah, want to leave."

Zoe was silent, though continued to stroke his hair. Charles feared the worst. It seemed like forever before she answered.

"Look at me Charles." Her tiny voice echoed through his giant, vaulted office.

He did so, though she was blurry, even from such a close distance.

Zoe took Charles' right hand and held it against her cheek before she brought it to the back of her neck and laid it there. His calloused fingers circled the angry gear he'd almost fussed over last night. The scarred flesh was raised, slightly bumpy, and smooth to the touch.

"Feel that?"

"Yeah?"

"That should tell you just how long I'm willing to wait."

If Charles had been any other man, he might have cried at that sentiment, put forth between them by a woman he hadn't even been involved with for an entire day. As it was, he brought their lips together without another word.

When they parted, Zoe hopped down off of Charles' lap and stretched, holding out her hand to him, a little lopsided grin present on her face.

"Now, come on. You can start by trusting me to get you some dinner. I can hear your stomach growling from over here." She straightened herself out with her free hand as Charles let her pull him to his feet. He made an apologetic face as he removed his hand from hers, and she sighed heavily.

"Just so we're clear- I'm not allowed to show any affection towards you in front of anyone, am I? And I'm not allowed to tell anyone, either, right?"

"Sorry." Was all he said, leaning over his laptop and entering another search query, though he had low hopes for it turning up anything. The last six hadn't. Zoe shrugged.

"Well…this is a start, anyway."

He didn't question what she meant, just gently pushed her towards the door and slipped into his professional façade easily, face blank, shoulders back, and striding along as though nothing had happened between them at all.

Behind them, Charles' laptop ran the query for all of a minute and forty-seven seconds before it _pinged _plaintively, having found something of interest. A few faces popped up on the screen. But, just as they did, the battery died. The laptop had been plugged in, but the cord had come loose from the port in the side when Zoe had set it down on the desk, and the machine powered down and went dark, all data lost.

That was how his hate began.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

As time passed, Charles found he was surprisingly adept at keeping their business life and their personal life separated. It overlapped only in how he addressed Zoe when they were alone in his office- the formal tone to his voice lost in favor of a much sweeter note. He'd never known how blissful his existence could be, and how easy it was to keep it so. And no one knew, or so it seemed.

Pickles felt something nag at the back of his head when he saw them working together. It was like he had turned a picture frame over in his mind, hiding the image inside. He knew he had witnessed _something_ that had made him want to run and tell the others, but he couldn't quite recall what that something was. Far be it from him to regain chunks of time held captive by alcohol and drugs.

Skwisgaar, too, seemed a little off around Zoe. It came to her attention one day that he knew she was romantically involved with someone- he just didn't know who.

She had been working in the RecRoom for once, sitting crosslegged on the couch and out of her business attire. Her fingers traded off between signing documents and punching in figures on her calculator when the Swede entered the room, the sound of unplugged strings proceeding him, as though he were a belled cat.

He pretended to be interested in whatever was on the cracked television screens, fingers flying over the worn frets on the neck of his guitar, when he spoke.

"So's. You's ams having de yous-knows-whats relations with someones, eh?"

Zoe choked on the mouthful of orange juice, which tried to work its way though her sinus cavity. The blond stared down at her, confused. It was a simple question.

"Uhm…why?" Evasion. Yeah, that would be the most helpful course of action in front of the over-experienced manwhore. Skwisgaar shrugged, settling himself down on the couch beside her, a touch too close for comfort.

"You's haves had de glowings skins and de secretives smile for weeks now. I seens it enough. Who ams he?"

She couldn't decide if he were nosy or if there was a darker motive. He looked innocent, though, staring at her while he waited for a reply.

"Uhhm…Just someone, Skwis." Zoe tried to smile at him, brushing a lock of her hair out of her face nervously.

"Does I knows him?" He voice grew husky, and he leaned in a little. She shuddered.

"Probably not." It wasn't a lie. The Charles she knew and the Charles he knew were almost two separate people. Her Charles- her _Charlie_, really- was devoted to her, worshipped her, made her feel loved and needed and wanted. Sometimes he had trouble expressing his feelings, but those were the times when she let things be said with silence. Skwisgaar's Charles was cold, an unfeeling robot-butler who existed for the sole purpose of keeping Dethklok running like a well-oiled machine. That Charles was devoid of emotion, calculating, and could only make his points with well-formed words, the blade of a sword, or the barrel of a gun.

Sometimes it was hard to believe these two very different people shared the same body.

Skwisgaar leered for a moment. She felt uncomfortable.

"Ams it serious?"

Zoe didn't know how to respond to that question. There were times, right after the throes of ecstasy had left them spent, where she wondered if she wasn't being used as a human stress ball. He could be so vicious in bed, so intent on letting out his frustrations, that she felt nearly forgotten, a piece of meat that was his only to use as a buffer between him and his universe. More often than not, though, it wasn't like that. More often than not, Charles catered to her desires, making sure she was content, making sure she was feeling good, and cradled her against his body after they were finished, protecting her from the horrors of the world that only sleep can bring. The same thing happened when their conversations turned into bickering debates, which either melted into laughter and kisses, or small bouts of silence.

Luckily, her pager went off before she had to answer him.

But there were also times when Charles himself didn't want to hide his relationship with his assistant. He was tired, he had told her over lunch one day. Tired of pretending he was something sub-human, without the ability to feel. Part of him wanted to go back to the simple life he had led in between bouts of recon during the nine months he was assumed dead. But he had far too deep a love for the job to do so. His boys needed him, and he needed them more than anything in the world. Zoe knew this. She accepted that Dethklok had to come first with an open and understanding heart, which was more than any woman before her had ever been able to do for him. Some days, however, he just couldn't bring himself to place her on the second shelf down.

They had to be careful when they played together in public. Once, Zoe had been researching an investment idea in the DethLibrary. Charles had felt the burning desire to see her, off the record, so instead of calling her back to his office like a normal boss, he followed her into the mesmerizing field of books. There were Klokateers everywhere, yet he had still thrown caution to the wind and chased her throughout the library, a regular game of hide and seek between two adults who should have known better.

Another time they were sparring in the training room, Charles now more intent on teaching her how to defend herself than ever, when he discovered she was ticklish. He dropped his foil haphazardly on the ground, and ended up chasing her around the room on foot, her giggles piercing the steel walls and making a few Klokateers wonder what they were missing. He had caught his lover around her waist and pinned her to the ground, taking the time to discover just where, exactly, her most sensitive spots were located.

It was just after Thanksgiving when they were found out.

Toki had expressed to his bandmates, in his own childish, slightly obnoxious way, an intensive craving for caramel-coated apples, irreverent of the fact that a fruit lay beneath the sweet syrup. For such a large place, word traveled fast in Mordhaus, and word eventually got back to Charles that the rhythm guitarist was about to pitch a fit if he didn't get what he wanted. This all occurred before the name "Jean-Pierre" even entered any musician's mind. Normally Charles would have just ignored and waited until the chef whipped some up, but he looked up from his paperwork and saw Zoe glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled, and an image popped into his head so strongly that he found he couldn't ignore it. He sent for the youngest band member, who came slinking into his office like a dog that had done something wrong (which made Charles wonder what, exactly, he had a guilty conscience for, but he decided it wasn't important at that exact moment.

"Toki, ah…see if the others want to go out for caramel apples, alright?"

Toki had grinned, running from the room screaming the names of his fellow bandmates, and that was the beginning of their downfall.

* * *

The Dethbus loomed on the side of the main road, a stark contrast to the distinctly country setting the odd menagerie of celebrities was plodding through. Charles stood to the side of the door while the band exited the bus, watching them all with a trained eye. His red scarf was tucked into his coat, and he looked normal enough. No nonsense that they could see. It was business as usual.

Zoe was the last one out, and the couple trotted along behind Dethklok, up the dirt road that led to their destination. Their chatter was amicable enough- mostly about some new merchandizing ideas Charles had come up with while brainstorming in bed the night before (though the words "in bed" were never uttered), but he pressed closer to her, shoulder to shoulder, as they walked. In all reality, he was trying to disguise the fact that he was holding her hand, a task easier said than done.

The farm stand was putridly adorable, a piece directly out of Charles' past that he often remembered fondly in his more subdued moments. Zoe was enthralled with it- he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to convince her to leave. The sun shone down, the birds that hadn't migrated south chirped happily, and clusters of brightly colored leaves clung to the trees surrounded the area. Charles inhaled deeply, trying not to appear too happy. But it was nice to get out of the office on occasion.

Everyone was treated to a round of caramel apples, which ended up being the discussion of choice. Were they brutal, or just metal? Murderface contently conjured up the image of gouging someone's eye out with the stick while Nathan countered with that of teeth rotting out completely and leaving gaping, stinking husks that oozed pus and caused heart attacks, and all was right with the world. The CFO finished his apple neatly, discarding the stick and the core in a trash can before motioning Zoe over to him and giving her an escape from the band's attempt to get her to market CaramelKlok Apples as a fall and winter alternative to Charles' seasonal concert Dethcones- although, admittedly, it wasn't a bad idea.

They were able to slip away without being noticed by the band, who were completely engulfed in watching Pickles try to unstuck a caramel coated apple core from his dreadlocks. Charles pulled Zoe along with him as they rounded the building. She was bright-eyed and breathless, but tried to resist.

"Charlie, we can't just _leave_ them! They could…they could kill the proprietor and set the entire region on fire! No one is watching them!" He rolled his eyes.

"I've, ah, let them go to the grocery store and other various places alone and minimal, ah, casualties resulted. We're right here- just relax."

It seemed odd for him to be the one to say such a thing. Usually he never left such things up to chance, but the mountain air had its effect, and he was feeling rebellious.

They walked the dirt trail around the small, lightly frosted pond, Zoe's gloved hand sliding over the wooden fence until Charles caught it up in his own, removed the offending leather, and kissed her fingertips, one by one. Zoe blushed, biting her lip, and it brought a soft smile to the manager's face, which he cradled the palm of her hand against as he kissed that, too. She looked particularly phenomenal that day, in clingy jeans and a cute sage sweater that offset her hair and eyes nicely. Never before had he seen her look so beautiful, nor so naturally at ease with him while the band was so close on their heels.

When they returned from their short walk, he had grabbed her, leaning up against the back wall of the general store, the familiar sound of everyone picking on Murderface reaching his ears. So far, no one had died. This was the way it should be. He should be left to his own devices, to do what he pleased, and the band shouldn't attempt to kill anyone or each other (since so much of that happened on its own, anyway). A family of ducks waddled along the well-worn path, and Zoe squirmed in his arms as she watched them with obvious enjoyment.

"That's, ah, how you waddle some mornings after a good night." He joked, and much to his dismay, she elbowed him in the ribs.

"Keep it up and you'll walk like that for the rest of your life." Zoe retorted, but her smile rang out in her voice. Charles buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes, sighing. His glasses fogged with every breath that bounced back in his face, but he didn't much care after she turned in his embrace and removed them from his eyes. He leaned down and kissed her deeply, combinations of the scenery and her lips on his making him want to just run from his job with her and never look back.

For the briefest of moments, everything was absolutely perfect. And that's when it all went wrong.

In that moment, Murderface wandered around the corner, peeved with the sudden attack on him and his bass playing by the rest of the band, and trying to soothe himself by looking for a place to piss that might be funny or defaming in some way. He considered a tree, the pond, and a rock before contemplating a search for an open window. What he saw when he turned down the path stopped him cold, and he twitched violently, air hissing through the gap between his teeth loud enough to catch the band's attention.

Pickles, who had finally untangled the sticky dessert from his hair and had appropriately bitch slapped Skwisgaar and Nathan, noticed first, and raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, what's wrong wit Murderface?" He asked, and the rest of the band looked over. Intrigued, they meandered towards the bassist, hoping it was something good and fucked up.

"What ams wrong, Moidasface?" Skwisgaar asked cheerfully. Murderface swallowed heavily.

"Holy schit," he muttered, pointing with a trembling finger when the others appeared in his peripheral vision. They followed the direction he showed them, witnessing the same horror. The horror they hoped would never happen. The image of their manager, the unflappable Charles F. Offdensen, sober and looking rather undone, blushing, and passionately lip-locked with his assistant, would be forever ingrained in their minds like the very worst kind of torture.

And then, there was silence.

"Wowee!" Toki cried loudly in delight as the others started to scream, startling the lovers so that they broke apart rapidly, swollen lips tingling from the cold air that breezed past them. Comically, the mother duck quacked as the band began to yell in fear and disgust. What was the world coming to?

Charles' mind went blank, for once in his life. The jig was up. His mouth gaped as the yelling died down and the blustering began. He could only see a blur, squinting in the band's direction before a bashful Zoe handed him his glasses.

He was torn. On the one hand, they officially _knew_. This would not end well for anyone. The desire to run away became stronger, and his embarrassment and shame darkened the pink in his cheeks. On the other hand, the woman whose gaze flickered from him to them uncertainly was someone who cared deeply about him, unlike them. He had to honor that.

Charles did they only thing he could do: he took Zoe's hand in his firmly, not bothering to hide it this time, and marched past his band, calling them into a line to follow him back to the Dethbus much like the duck who herded her ducklings in the other direction. His face was hard, set in stone, and he began to think of ways to explain himself without getting fired.

In space, a satellite _plinked_, the camera embedded in it zooming out to take a location shot. Directly following Dethklok's departure, that satellite was sucked into the Earth's atmosphere and slammed directly into the general store, cleansing the area by fire, which was more than the band could do for their massacred retinas.

But, elsewhere, the Tribunal schemed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Silence.

And then, "I could kill you if I, ah, wanted to."

Zoe walked in on the veritable face-off between manager and band, toting seven coffee cups on a tray. She'd needed to get away from the impending fight before it even began, and had retreated to the kitchen, chatting amicably with Jean-Pierre and brewing a pot for everyone. Grimly, she handed Dethklok their mugs, ignoring the looks they gave her. Charles bristled and hunched, causing her to click her tongue in annoyance.

"Oh, come on now guys, play nice."

Pointedly she glared at Charles, who was actually threatening his band. He glared right back, and she realized she was faced with his business attitude, not his bedroom attitude.

"Like yous and de managers _plays nice_? I don'ts think sos." Skwisgaar muttered, clearly peeved. The others, minus Toki, just looked confused.

"Sorry, Skwis, it just never would have worked out between us." Zoe rolled her eyes at the Swede, who huffed and continued to play guitar.

"So's? I'ds still trys anyways. How's can you resists?"

Moving around the conference table, Zoe manually unclenched Charles' sudden fists from his sides and pressed a mug into his hands.

"Talk to them, Charles." She warned. He stared into his coffee, ashamed of himself.

"Well, I's thinks yous and Zoe beings together ams totallies metals." Toki offered to Charles, who looked up at him, his face unreadable.

"Thank you, Toki." He replied numbly, not sure of how to proceed. Instead, his assistant took the initiative, sitting on the edge of the conference table.

"Look, you guys, Charles and I are both adults, just like you. We can make our own decisions. We are _entitled_ to be together if we want to be. It doesn't change anything between you and him or you and I. He's still your manager, I'm still his assistant, and you're still his Dethklok."

Everyone began to speak at once.

"But he's gonna lose his focus."

"He'sch not going to have time for usch anymore."

"Not that he ever did before, dood."

"You're right, Pickles."

"We's ams goings to goes broke if he's stays with yous!"

That one stung, and it showed on her face. Zoe bowed her head, hiding her feelings behind a mask of soured attitude. Charles honestly didn't know how to handle the situation. Who was more at fault? Dethklok for judging, Zoe for seducing, or himself for tempting Fate and allowing all this to happen?

"Guys, you are not going to, ah, go broke. In fact, sales are up since the last concert, and that Halloween party. Let me ask you this: what is so wrong about my having a, ah, girlfriend?"

No one could answer that question directly, even though they wracked their brains for an excuse that they hadn't already offered.

"Exactly. Besides, it's, uhm…it's good for you." He muttered, recalling just how he had ended up in this sordid state of affairs.

Nathan looked up, surprised.

"How is you and Zoe…oh- oh_ God_- uh…unh…getting…uh, _it…_ on good for us?" Charles glanced over at her; she seemed to be handling this better than he would've expected. Truth be told, he hadn't known what to expect. A thousand times he'd dreamed about the band finding out about them, but it was never due to his own trusting folly, which was quite a jump from the exact reverse he'd been guilty of many times before. But he'd never thought ahead that far, never planned what he would say if and when they _did_ find out, and now that day was upon him, and he could do nothing to take it back.

"Well, I'm more relaxed, Nathan. Haven't you noticed I've been taking less, ah, time to decide what you can and can't do with your money? Having her in my life does not change my decisions pertaining to the band. It actually speeds them up. That's good for you, isn't it?"

The table nodded begrudgingly. Zoe saw her opening and took it, not looking at Charles. She didn't want the band to think she depended on him.

"Look. Toki's right, we're totally metal."

"How?" Murderface growled, crossing his arms.

"Four words: Hot. Dirty. Pig. Fucking." With a sly face, she ticked them off on her fingers, and shifted her rear on the edge of the table, catching the band's attention.

Charles' head snapped up, and he stared at her in shock. She seemed completely at ease with what she had said, and he couldn't discern the truth from the embellishment. If that was all she saw him as, a sex-machine for her personal enjoyment, then she was just like the other occasional groupies he had taken to bed, and was just as easily gotten rid of, as well.

He forced himself to calm down, then, and consider the circumstances. If he jumped to conclusions, he'd lose the second best thing to ever happen to him. If he heard her out, he might discover Mordhaus was temporarily deigned to be the Heartbreak Hotel. Then again, why should he care? Why was he allowing himself to get so flustered? She was a free lay and another set of working hands to herd his five favorite imbeciles around and tell them what to do. He should have never treated her otherwise, he told himself silently. But he couldn't make himself believe it. Mostly because he knew in his heart it wasn't true, and never had been.

He was caught, then. Charles' past stared back at him in the scarred reflection on the calm surface of his coffee. That much was clear, although he knew it would come back to haunt him. But as his present stared back at him from around the table, he looked from Zoe to Dethklok, and realized he had to decide which comprised his future. He likened it to the feeling of hanging the toes of his shoes off the edge of a deep canyon or ravine, and then tipping his head back to look only at the sky. He'd never know if he were falling forwards or backwards, or even being completely still, and in the end, only one outcome left him standing.

Images flashed in his mind's eye. The mask, the knife, the red glow that tinted the sky as Mordhaus burned. The EMT's, and then his glimpse of what Heaven looked like, even though he knew he'd never make it past the pearly gates. He didn't take the time to examine the rest of his memories as he tried to hide the terrified shiver that rattled his spine. He suddenly became aware that, for once, the meeting's main speaker wasn't him.

"Well…yeah. Think of it as an elongated fuck session. We liked it so much we just had to go back and do it all over again. That's about all there is to it. You know what that's like, dontcha?"

The band began to murmur and nod to themselves begrudgingly.

He wanted to scream, wanted to do something other than sit there paralyzed by his profession and make her see reason, but instead he set his mug down on the table and straightened his tie.

"Are you, ah, satisfied?" His voice was of a practiced flatness. Dethklok looked at each other for a moment before deciding.

"Lischten, Zoe. Ish he _really_ that good? He'sch, like, a robot. Do you _really_ want to wake up to a maschine every morning? Becaushe, I'm available, if you're intereschted in getting at a piecsch of thisch." Murderface suggested. She made a face at him.

"Yeah…well…just, uh…just… finedon'tletitgetintheway oh _God,_ I need drugs, beer, and a lobotomy right fucking now!" Nathan roared. His blessing for the sexual camaraderie given, Charles left the room without another word, breezing past Zoe. She followed behind him a few minutes later, while Dethklok remained behind, too lazy to move.

When they finally did move, and the room was empty, seven coffee cups littered the table. Six were drained. One was not.

* * *

He didn't know what to do with himself. He'd tried working, wandering…nothing helped. Never before had Charles felt so out of place in his own domain. Eventually he just wound up in his own room, an early retirement after a trying day.

The CFO kicked off his shoes, tossed his tie and jacket across the bureau in the corner of the room, and flopped down on his bed, rolling over on his stomach and burying his head between the pillows. Twenty minutes later, a resounding knock on the door prompted him to poke his chin out just long enough to yell "come in," knowing who it was before they ever entered.

Zoe peeked around the door, and chanced a slight smile. She slipped inside, approaching Charles on quiet feet, and then lay down next to him, soothingly rubbing circles into his back. Charles unburied his head, rotating to look over his shoulder. He was met by an apologetic gaze.

"Before you say anything, Murderface does not deserve to die for that comment, and they'll get used to us."

He turned away from her then, staring at the wall.

"Were you, ah, serious?"

"About what?"

"Are we still just doing this because it's cheap, easy fun?" He grew morose. Zoe sighed.

"I…I don't know.. It is what it is. What more can it possibly be?" She muttered, and an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

The CFO closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. He'd been expecting such an answer, but it didn't take away the hurt.

"For a high-class lawyer, you were particularly vague in, ah, outlining that." He shook off her caress, feeling empty. Zoe sat up and ran a hand through her hair, frazzled and promptly exhausted.

"Well, what do you want me to say, Charles? You have a job no one else can do. It demands your attention almost twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We manage what we can, when we can. But a relationship only works when both parties are full-in, and there are five other people that stand between you and me. We proved that today."

Charles contemplated this seriously, and concluded that she was right. There was never a "them," only himself and her on occasion. He resigned himself to that fact in that moment, and knew it could never change.

But something deep inside him also blossomed to life in that moment, and he subconsciously made a choice between logic and irrationality, for once in his adult existence.

"That's, ah, not true."

Zoe sniffed back the tears that had threatened to spill over, and looked at him incredulously from her place in the center of the bed.

"What?"

Charles took his glasses off, cleaning them just to occupy his hands.

"There's, ah, a whole world that stands between us."

"Oh." She deadpanned, deflated. Zoe stood up, heading for the door without another word. She had her hand on the handle when he spoke again.

"But that doesn't stop me from, ah, loving you."

Time froze. Zoe's knees trembled, and those tears she had worked hard to stay flowed freely down her face. A tingling sensation began in her chest, and she was powerless against the waves of joy that crashed over her.

She turned, staring into Charles' serious gaze, etching into her memory every single aspect of his being at that moment. The lines in his face, the color of his hair, the sheen of his skin, the slightly eccentric shine in his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

He smiled.

"Yes. I love you, Zoe Marie Warwick." There. He had said it, for the first time, and he wasn't lying through his teeth, soothing any hurt egos, or smoothing over corporate-political rifts. His feelings were certain, and he rejoiced in finally having the strength to face them.

Zoe choked back a sob, and made her way to the edge of the bed. She cried openly now, gasping.

"Charles, I…I'm breathless."

"Did you really think I didn't?" He murmured, crawling over to her. She shook her head.

"No…I mean, I'm really breathless," she wheezed, clawing at her chest.

Immediately, no-nonsense business-Charles was at her side, sitting her down on the edge of the bed and trying to calm her down. He took her pulse- it was racing.

"Are you sick?" He had his dethphone in hand, the Mordhaus EMT's on speed dial. She looked at him, fear in her eyes as her ability to draw in air grew more and more shallow. He pressed the button, and the phone rang, but no one picked up.

Zoe panicked, then, and Charles grabbed her, restraining her from flailing and making her situation worse. He slid her turtleneck sweater over her head to get it off her neck, revealing the lacy pink camisole beneath. Her skin was flushed red, and small blotches covered her body.

"What the hell is this?" He grumbled, sliding her down to the floor and laying her out flat. She gripped his hand, and he tried the hospital once more. Again, there was no answer.

Zoe hacked and coughed, air coming out faster than it could get in. Suddenly Charles' door flew open without a knock.

"My lord, there's a situation." The Klokateer noticed Zoe on the floor, and scrambled to elaborate. "Dethklok's been poisoned."

"I know. I need some help in here." Slowly Zoe was losing her ability to move, and her grasp on Charles' hand lessened. He shook her shoulder gently, trying to get her attention.

"Zoe? Zoe, stay with me. It's, ah, it's gonna be alright." He was never good at giving reassurance, and he cursed himself when his own uncertainty slipped through in his voice.

"My lord, they need you at the hospital. You may be in danger as well." The Klokateer continued. A memory flashed through Charles' mind. It had to be the only way- he would've known or noticed otherwise.

"No. I'm fine. I…I didn't drink the coffee." He said incredulously. Zoe sputtered beneath him, and he stroked her hair, heedless of what the Klokateer might think.

"Charles." She coughed, her voice a raspy whisper.

"Don't try to talk."

"No. Go." He looked at her, stunned and helpless. Her lips were turning blue, and her eyelids fluttered as her brain began to shut down.

"I-"

"Fuckin' get out of here, Charles! They need you!" She cried as loud as she could, before falling back to the floor and trembling violently.

What could he do? He couldn't move her- he could only listen to her. Charles nodded, standing up and stalking towards the door.

"Stay with her. Get someone up here." He commanded the Klokateer, tossing the gear his phone, all frivolity forgotten. From the floor behind him, a small voice whispered.

"I love you, too."

* * *

The hours passed. Charles stood in the hall, watching through the wide pane of glass as his band was revived time and time again. Zoe, too, was in the room, a later addition to the poison's would-be causalities, and she appeared to be faring worse than the others. Nathan kept crashing, his liver unable to handle filtering the chemical weapon in his system. Every so often, one of Dethklok's members would come-to, screaming in agony and casting a confused gaze at the window, where they could see Charles, unkempt and clad only in his dress shirt, slacks, and socks.

The paddles were readied when Murderface flatlined, and the glorious medical attendants just barely managed to bring him back. Charles held out his arm, his expression blank, as a nurse drew some of his blood to be tested for poison.

"I'm not sick." He growled when the needle pricked his skin. She nodded kindly.

"We just have to be sure, my lord."

After the nurse finished, Charles tore himself away from the window, leaving the facility in favor of the main Deth Hall, where every available Klokateer was gathered. A servant offered him a suit jacket so he might look more presentable, but Charles waved them off, mounting the stage and rolling up his sleeves. He grabbed the edges of the podium roughly, fingernails digging into the wood of the lectern.

"I've gathered you here because there has, as you, ah, know, been a breech in security. Someone or something managed to slip past us- _all_ of us, which is not acceptable. As of this moment, all of Dethklok is laying in a hospital operating room, near death. I can't begin to tell you how big of a problem it will be if even one of them dies or is, ah, permanently injured. Wars will erupt. Mobs will be formed. The entire world will be thrown into chaos if even one hair on their heads is disturbed when this is over, and your jobs will cease to exist.

"You have not failed to protect Dethklok yet. Your failure will come if you do not find out who poisoned the coffee- yes, the coffee. Jean-Pierre is not a suspect- he is one of the few trusted gears in this machine. Trust no one else but myself. Not even those amongst you. It appears as though we, ah, might just have an overzealous mole in our midst. Find him or her at all costs, and bring them to me. See that they get to me, alive. I have some questions for them. They fucked with our bread and butter, and that's, ah, never a good thing."

The gathered Klokateers who stood at attention each raised a fist in salute, and as Charles stepped down from the stage, the room burst into action. He stood there, eying everyone as best he could, searching for any oddly behaving gears. There didn't appear to be any.

He checked his watch. It had been almost seven hours since this had all started. He was a numb machine- not even sleep tugged at his body. He was filled with rage and adrenaline, and God help whoever or whatever got in his way.

Charles crossed the property under the waning moon. It would be dawn in less than an hour. He shivered, the cold air biting through his thin shirt. He slipped through the steel doors of the recently enlarged hospital and returned to his post at the observation window.

Not long after, another nurse appeared with another set of needles. Charles looked at her in confusion, but let her roll up his sleeve and tie the elastic tourniquet around his bicep. She tested like a pro for his veins, and then uncapped the shining needle and prepared for entry.

"Another nurse already drew my blood." He stated. She tipped her Klokateer's mask towards him.

"We just need a little more."

"Did you find anything?" The needle tip rested on the skin of his arm, poised to break through.

Before his mind could register the action, Charles jumped back. A tiny drop of blood squeezed its way out of the wound, and he applied pressure around the area, forcing more of it to the surface before ripping off the tourniquet. Something just didn't feel right, and he knew to always trust his intuition.

The executioner's hood tipped to the side, and the nurse approached him like a trainer at a zoo. She held the syringe tightly in her hand.

"No. That's the problem." The traitor lunged with the needle like it was a spear, faster than Charles expected. He narrowly avoided the attack, and then took off down the hallway. Light footsteps followed close behind. He didn't know what was on that needle- if it touched him again, he could die instantly.

He rounded a corner as fast as he could, but his socks weren't designed for high speeds on tiled floor, and he slid, his shoulder crashing into the wall. Instantly the woman was on him, growling and snarling like a mad dog. He grabbed the wrist that attempted to plunge the needle into his heart, forcing her arm back with all his strength. Her left forearm she pinned to his neck, and his trachea was slowly being crushed. Taking her alive was no longer an option.

He grabbed for the nearest thing he could reach as a first resort, fingers just barely grazing the edge of the cart that had almost been his final resting place outside the infirmary door. With a shout, Charles drove the scalpel into his assailant's neck, and she backed off, howling in pain and defeat. Released, he finished with a neatly placed crane kick, lodging the knife in as far as it would go with the ball of his foot.

Blood spurted from the hole in the Klokateer mask, and coated him and the walls as she flailed, falling to her knees, and then, with a gurgle, face first into the floor. He leaned there, panting, trying to recuperate from his near-death experience.

Charles looked around. It was something straight out of a horror movie. The dim yellow light in the corridor flickered, a bad omen. Everything in sight was coated in blood, and a body lay at his feet with a scalpel sticking out of its neck. Then again, since beginning his work with Dethklok, his entire existence felt like it was straight out of a horror movie.

Having sufficiently recovered, Charles nudged the syringe needle out of the fallen traitor's hand and kicked it aside, just in case she wasn't dead. Kneeling down, he took her pulse to confirm her demise, and then began to remove the hood to find out his assailant's identity.

He stopped when he noticed there was no brand mark on the back of her neck, and returned to Dethklok as fast as his legs could take him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Zoe rolled over in the large bed, searching for something in her half-awake state that had already gone. Her arm sprawled across the mattress, and she peeled her eyelids open and faced the emptiness that meant Charles was already up and about. He'd been leaving her early in the morning, for a few days, and she was beginning to wonder what he was up to.

"And you'd think a man like him would take all the sleep he can get." She growled to herself, wincing.

Even after a week of recovery, she still woke with muscle aches and a deep, resounding dread that she would find herself unable to breathe. Zoe sat up, shaking off her fear. To allay her uneasiness, she grabbed Charles' pillow and buried her face in it. Instantly, his inviting scent put a smile on her face. He smelled like a musky cologne and nutmeg.

She peeked at the alarm clock. It read 7:15. She could probably still catch him at breakfast if she hurried, so Zoe slid out of the bed she now officially shared with her lover (Charles had reluctantly let her move her things into his room as well, squawking at her over her unkempt state of organization when it came to odds and ends. She'd quieted him by turning out the lights and pushing him onto the mattress- a motion to which the court held no objection) and threw on her robe.

On a warmer day she might have appeared in the dining hall by way of the courtyard, but it was nearing December, and had become far too cold for pajamas and fleece. So she wound her way through the castle-like corridors until she came to the main Mordhaus complex. On her way, she slipped through the main kitchen, beaming at Jean-Pierre when he noticed her.

"Good morning!" She exclaimed to the disfigured chef, who attempted what looked like a smile. Zoe was one of the few people he had formed a legitimate friendship with, and if she was put off by the way he looked, she didn't show it. Silently he thanked her professional training.

"Good morning, Zoe. Feeling better today?" He continued chopping in preparation for Dethklok's breakfast, his loose thumb flopping about with a dead, thudding sound that remained about a second off from the sharp thwack of the knife blade connecting with the cutting board.

"Oh yes. Much. Hey, is Charles in the dining hall?" She looked over at the coffee pot and winced, opting instead for a glass of orange juice.

"I don't know. He didn't come through here if he is, and he didn't request anything to eat." He slurred, focused on his work. Zoe watched him for a moment, and then noticed the saliva collecting on the remnants of his lower lip. She picked up a dish cloth and reached out, wiping his mouth before he could suffer the constant indignity of drooling. He stopped, then, his ravaged features contorting into a look of gratitude. In return, he hobbled over to the cooling rack, where a very non-brutal looking basket of steaming muffins resided.

Jean-Pierre removed the cloth covering the basket and plucked two enormous blueberry muffins from the top, cut them open, buttered them, and arranged them on a plate.

"There you go. One for you, and one for the boyfriend, eh?" He knew that if Charles caught him talking like that, he'd be excused or possibly even maimed- again- but he didn't feel like he was in danger. Zoe smiled.

"Thanks. I'll go find him. See ya later!" She called over her shoulder, scuffing along in her slippers. The chef watched her walk away, shaking his head good naturedly, and with a slight twinge of regret.

"Charles is a lucky man." He muttered. And then, as an afterthought, he solemnly knocked on the wooden cutting board.

* * *

Charles wasn't in the dining hall, and Zoe found him just by chance when she started in the direction of his office. He was leaning in a large window, looking down on the yard where a bundled-up Dethklok played a frosty game of tennis. He jumped when she placed a hand on his back, but quickly relaxed, leaning down for a kiss before she offered him a muffin. He took it thoughtfully.

"You still, ah, don't have to come back to work, you know." He took in her attire and a small smile passed his lips. Zoe indignantly placed the hand that wasn't holding the plate on her hip.

"When _are_ you going to let me get back in the world, Charlie? Might take my mind off things." She was subtle, but he caught her drift. The yellow stained glass above his head cast a cathedral pattern on his face and hair, bathing them both in a golden light. Zoe studied the mosaic light shapes cast on the floor. Charles pressed back against the stone wall and wrapped an arm around her waist, prompting her to trail kisses up his shoulder and over his collarbone.

"I know, it's just…" He trailed off, unable to make the truth come out.

"What is it?" She whispered in his ear, cuddling into his side. Charles held her tighter, still watching out the window. He sighed.

"It's just that people who, ah, work for me get hurt or killed. You've seen it yourself. And I don't want, ah, anything to happen to you." A picture of the false Klokateer came to the forefront of his mind, and he trembled. He'd been on edge ever since, even though everyone had survived with minimal damage. Slowly a bigger picture was beginning to form, between the attack on the Tower of London and the one a week before, and he didn't quite like the image it was producing.

Zoe wrapped a strand of his hair around her finger. There wasn't much she could say to that. Though she supposedly "feared not her mortality," when death had been fast upon her, she had been filled with terror, and she did not want it to happen again. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, and she giggled. Charles raised an eyebrow.

"What's, ah, so funny?"

"Charlie, my love, you're not thinking of firing me, are you? Because I'll kick your ass in court over that one." He frowned at the deceivingly sweet smile she gave him, and much to his dismay, she tousled his hair.

"Yeah, I know you would. Still…" he murmured as he smoothed his hair, feigning annoyance.

"Hm?"

"This could be considered, ah, sexual harassment." He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, which she promptly removed.

"Oh, honey, you haven't experienced any harassment…yet." Zoe grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their bodies together.

Dethklok remained in the yard, temporarily forsaken by their overseer.

* * *

Nathan sat down on the picnic bench, worn out after having his ass handed to him by Pickles. He still wasn't completely up to snuff after the poisoning. None of them were, but they refused to do nothing for another week. Toki took Nathan's place on the court, shivering. Why they were all awake and playing tennis at the crack of dawn, they didn't know. It just seemed like something to do at the time, considering none of them could sleep well since being released from the hospital.

Unbidden, the events replayed in his head for the umpteenth time. When he'd first fallen ill, he figured it was just time for another liver transplant, but then the others followed suit, and panic had swiftly beset them all.

Things then began to jump around. He remembered a sea of Klokateers surrounding him. He remembered the hospital room. He remembered the look on Charles' face when he'd turned his head away from the bright lights. He remembered seeing the other near-lifeless bodies of his bandmates on tables, plus Zoe. Most of all, he remembered the pain.

And then he was waking up in a recovery room. Pickles and Toki were to his left, Murderface and Skwisgaar to his right, and Charles was half asleep in the lounge chair in the corner, wrapped in a spare blanket. He looked like hell, Nathan had thought. Sort of the physical embodiment of what the singer was feeling internally.

_Nathan turned his head, groaning at the sudden waves of nausea that washed over him. Charles stirred, blinking owlishly and rolling his shoulders. The pop of a spine slipping back into alignment preceded his worming out of the chair and meandering over to Nathan's bedside._

_"Ungh. What the fuck happened?" The first thing he noticed that clicked as 'wrong' was that Charles looked freshly showered and was wearing plain clothes. The last time he'd seen that, it was at a rising from the grave. He wondered vaguely if this meant his life had gone full circle since then, and if he were dying. It also occurred to him to remember that, as it would come in handy for a song or two, if he survived._

_"You were, ah, poisoned." Charles said simply, stifling a yawn half-heartedly._

_"The fuck?" Was all he managed to say before another bout of nausea overcame him._

_"It was either in the coffee or on the cups."_

_Through a haze of pain and a general feeling of being toxic, Nathan's brain made a surprisingly fast connection, and he snarled._

_"I'll fucking kill that bitch you're fucking, Ofdensen." He looked around, and noticed she wasn't in the room. Charles shot him a stern look._

_"It wasn't Zoe. She's gone through it, just as you have." He looked certain, which reassured Nathan somewhat._

_"Then where is she?"_

_"She's got her own room, being a woman."_

_Again, Nathan's mental facilities were firing on all cylinders, because he realized almost immediately that Charles was with them- had been with them- and not her. A secret satisfaction crept into him, and he closed his eyes._

_"'M I dying?"_

_"Not that I, ah, know of. Do you need anything, Nathan?"_

_"Yeah. Gimme a beer."_

_"You'll be fine." Charles straightened his glasses, another yawn that was insuppressible claiming his ability to speak._

_He looked over Nathan at the sleeping forms of the other four band members, who showed no signs of stirring, and turned around to leave. Before he reached the door, however, Nathan called out to him._

_"Why are you dressed like that?"_

_Charles debated telling him the truth for a moment, that his clothes were coated in the blood of an insurgent who died at his hands in the hospital. But if he did, Nathan might want to see every single Klokateer executed, or some other twisted version of dealing with the problem. Not that it wouldn't take care of the problem, but he figured there was probably a more diplomatic way of going about such things._

_"A Klokateer who, ah, snuck a cup of coffee vomited blood all over me."_

_Nathan nodded, slipping back into sleep._

_"Brutal," he murmured, breathing heavy. Charles slipped out of the room, anxious to get some sleep himself._

"Nat'an? Nat'an." Pickles kicked him in the shin, waving his hand in front of his face. The singer grabbed the offending hand and pushed it away.

"Do it again and I'll rip it off." Pickles shook out his hand, which was now throbbing from the death grip it had been placed under.

"Dood. We're goin' ta get some food. You comin'?"

"Yeah. I'm fucking starving." He said, trying to leave his thoughts behind him in the crunchy grass, hopefully to be consumed by the wolves.

Meanwhile, Charles and Zoe had parted ways. She said she was going out shopping and then to see her friends. Nervous didn't even begin to cover how he felt about her bumping around, completely unsupervised after the incident, but he was nearly powerless to stop her. Sadly, his method of teaching her self-defense and strategy had finally sunk in to the hilt, and she had become a master of evasion. One wrong move, and she'd disappear from his radar entirely.

"Although how someone loses a practical beacon of fire wearing matching red lipstick and red heels in winter is beyond me." He mumbled to himself while watching out his window as she drove off, a light snow beginning to fall, and then started off to check the progress on one of his side endeavors.

He descended the dragonspire, taking elevator after elevator into a small section of Mordhaus that wasn't visible from the outside, or listed on any map of the building. Three, triple-sealed doors later, Charles was settled into what had become a sort of second-office. The control center was one thing, but this was a completely different beast.

From that room, Charles Ofdensen controlled the world.

Or, at least, he could have, if it suited his fancy, but, usually, he let things play out in a much more natural fashion. He was completely alone, in there. The only things surrounding him were artifacts, reproductions of artifacts, documents, records, photographs, tape recordings, and a giant computer monitor. The only way to contact him there was by pager. Not even Zoe knew about that room, and if he had it his way, she never would. She was too kind-hearted to handle the sort of things that went on in there, and would have begged him to shut it down. Things would only get messy after that.

"Identification, please." A digitized female voice stated. Charles leaned forward for the retina scan, and had his thumbprint scanned at the same time. The computer monitor turned from blue to red.

"Welcome back, Charles. What are your orders?"

Finding the room stuffy, he removed his suitcoat, draping it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Has the scan been completed yet?"

"Yes, sir. Last night. Shall I show you the results?"

"Uh huh."

The monitor brought up three pages of information, displaying them side by side. Charles appraised them carefully, and grimaced.

"Nothing? How is that even possible?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I could not find any definite matches. Would you like me to try again?"

"She was a human _being_." He stressed carefully, his annoyance rising. "She has to be on record somewhere. People who can fight like that and would die for a cause don't just pop up out of thin air, dammit!" By the end of his tirade, he was slamming an open palm down on the table.

The computer beeped at him plaintively, not sure what to do with the useless information it was being fed.

"I'm sorry, Charles. There were no results." It reiterated. Charles huffed and crossed his arms.

"Run it again. Every government database. Every staff member we have ever employed. Run every recorded person in the entire world if you have to, even those written off as deceased. Any piece of trace evidence from a crime…just…just run everything." He commanded.

"Yes, Charles. Estimated scan time- seven weeks, three days, fifteen hours, twenty-six minutes. Shall I begin now?"

Charles deadpanned.

"Ah…can you farm out to other computers in the sector?"

"Yes I can. Processing…new estimated scan time with the use of the render farm in this sector, is three weeks exactly." The computer blinked a glowing start button into place. Charles shook his head.

"What if every computer in Mordhaus seeded?"

"Calculating…new estimated scan time with the use of all computers on the premises is two days, seventeen hours, and eighteen minutes."

"Better. Be quick about it, and don't, ah, pull too much from any one machine. Are your firewalls up to date?"

"As always, sir. Shall I begin the scan?"

The CFO nodded, staring hard at one of the wide-format photographs he had on the wall. It was of carvings in a piece of rock. It had taken him forever to get close enough to take the photo, but he was glad he did. He didn't think it was connected with the more recent events, but he wasn't taking chances, in the end.

"Yep. Let me know when you're finished."

"Of course, sir. Is there anything else you require today?" In a rectangular box in on one side of the screen, green words began to flash across a black background, faster than lightning. Charles tried to keep up with them, but only ended up with a headache. He rubbed his eyes and thought for a moment.

"Triangulate the position of entry-approved passenger vehicle six-forty-six." He sat on the edge of the sturdy table that was heaped with books and papers, as well as a few stray coffee cups he'd forgotten to remove. Another window appeared on the screen.

"Triangulating…" The computer trailed off as a satellite image began to scan over the entire world, zooming in several times when it got a lock on the signature of the tracking device. Finally, a little white dot blinked. Charles reached up and pulled the corners of the image out with his index fingers, and it grew larger and zoomed in closer.

The car was sitting placid outside the mall, and from what he could see, there were no fires or natural disasters or man made disasters that would make his night a long and weary one. He couldn't spot an ambulance or fire truck, which was a very good sign. He poked a finger at the mall, and waited a moment while a menu popped up. Dialing in a few numbers and pressing a few buttons, he brought up an encryption key cracker.

"Disable the block on the mall's security system."

"Disabling." The computer echoed, and in less than a minute, he was in the system, and had hacked into the security cameras. He scanned each image carefully, looking for signs of disruption.

"Sir?" The computer addressed him in an odd tone.

"Hm?"

"Are you looking for Miss Warwick?"

"None of your business." He kept scanning the screens.

Suddenly, the security footage blacked out, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"I have located Warwick, Zoe, based on my photographic database, and have determined she is in no immediate danger. Risk level for future altercations- six. Reason for risk level- the cashier is in a bad mood."

"And? Let me see the footage. Now."

"I'm sorry, sir, I have already rerouted my memory allocation back to the previously authorized scan. I'm afraid I cannot process your request at this time. I can, however, process an order of roses to make up for your unnecessary snooping and lack of trust in your significant other, if you'd like."

Dumbstruck, Charles sat back on the table, gawking at the computer screen. Blushing a bit- which was barely visible under the red glow of the lights and display- he finally found the will to snap his jaw closed, and pulled a face at the machine, even though he knew it couldn't see him.

"Remind me again why I had you programmed with, ah, artificial intelligence."

"Because you had no one else to talk to at the time, sir. I can bring up multiple conversations between us that have resulted in small talk. Would you like me to bring those up now, or would you like me to call your girlfriend so you can tell her you were spying on her?"

Rolling his eyes, Charles stood up and gathered up his jacket and coffee mug.

"I'm having your nagging partition removed."

"Understandable, sir."

"Don't forget to shoot me a message when the scan's finished."

"Of course, sir. Have a good night."

"Thanks, Linda."

Charles left the Linear Intra-National Data-crawler Accessory behind as he resituated his clothes, shaking his head and muttering to himself about machines that were too nosy for their own good, but all the while knowing the super-computer was a hundred percent correct, as usual.

Reconsidering the flowers, he figured it would be a nice "just because" gesture, and then lightly hit his head against the elevator wall when he realized a bunch of components and strings of binary code was better at dating than himself.

* * *

The knock came again, louder this time. Zoe groaned and rolled over, sluggishly turning on the bedside lamp. It was almost three in the morning, and she was exhausted after her outing and then the mountain of work the band's latest disaster had left her with. Charles winced at the sudden brightness, absolutely unable to rouse himself and only minutely conscious of the fact that he was the manager of Dethklok, and a knock on his door at this hour usually meant trouble, clowns (an even more aggravating form of trouble), or someone wanting to get drunk with him. Ignoring this fact, he flattened himself out on his stomach, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed, and wrapped the other around his face, hiding the obtrusive invader that was light from his vision.

Zoe wrapped her bathrobe around herself, making sure she was decent before she answered the door. To her surprise, Nathan stood in the hall, dwarfing her tiny frame.

"Nathan. Is everything alright?" She whispered, trying not to disturb her lover. She looked him over- he didn't appear to be injured or sick.

"Yeah." He stood there, glaring down at her. She felt uncomfortable as the moment dragged on.

"Umm…do you need something?"

"No."

Zoe twisted her bathrobe tie in a knot as the frontman continued to stare at her. Almost as though he was trying to stare through her, or perhaps into her. His vision flickered past her into the dimly lit room, where Charles peacefully slumbered, unaware. Something about seeing him there like that made Nathan fold his arms and try to look intimidating to the young woman in front of him.

"Don't fuck him up." He said finally, turning to leave after chancing her with a short but knowing smirk.

He was halfway down the hall when she turned around, yawning.

"Duly noted."

"Oh, uh, wait." Nathan called. From inside the bedroom, Charles said something halfway unintelligible about court dates and why he couldn't fly to Beijing that evening with five checkbook balances to straighten out. Zoe giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Hm?"

"Do you know why everyone's laptop is running so slowly?"

The redhead shrugged.

"Not a clue. Sorry, Nathan."

"S'okay. Bye."

"See ya in the morning."

Resettling herself beside her boyfriend, She was just about to turn out the lamp when he rolled over, sleepily searching for warmth to cuddle again, and spoke again.

"Mm...it's Linda's fault." He said, resting a hand on her thigh.

Suddenly, he was being hit with a book on supreme court cases and how their verdicts were reached and he opened his eyes to meet the fuming gaze of his woman.

"Who the fuck is Linda?"

He barely had time to grab his pillow and use it as a shield before he was being abused by the legal system again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

The scent of pine filtered throughout Mordhaus; one could smell it entire complexes away. This pungent smell was not necessarily unpleasant- just different.

It stemmed from the giant tree that now sat in the middle of the RecRoom, something Charles admittedly thought he would never see again after the last Christmas disaster. But Zoe had, surprisingly, convinced his boys that Christmas could indeed be metal, and they were giving it one more try.

In between the busy schedule she'd taken on since Charles had allowed her to return to work (which was after the bruises had healed from her ruthless beating over "Linda"), she had taken control of all holiday festivities, forcing herself to "think metal" in order to please the band. This included decorating, something she was extremely fond of.

Everyone had squabbled about the extent to which she was allowed to decorate. In all actuality, there were two sets of fights occurring simultaneously. Dethklok and Zoe-loudly- spent their time arguing over what she could and couldn't do, which mostly meant they sulked and broke things after she went ahead and did it anyway. Unfortunately, that only fueled her fire, and she would rebuild her fantastic displays bigger and better than before. But behind closed doors, she and Charles bickered over how much was too much. And that wasn't only in a monetary sense. When her unquenchable fountain of Christmas cheer attempted to touch their bedroom and his office, he'd put his foot down.

Or, so he'd thought. Sighing, he glared at the tiny Christmas tree on the corner of his desk, willing it to burst into flames or fall to the ground and break beyond repair. But when he realized this would encourage his girlfriend to get him a bigger one, he quickly returned to his work.

Zoe breezed in the door just then, a red and white Santa hat pulled down over her ears. Charles looked at her blankly. How could she have so much extra time to fool around when he had given her enough work to _prevent_ this from happening?

The answer was simple- he'd forgotten during her sick leave that she was just as skilled at multitasking as he was. Red and black garland was draped in strands around her neck, her arms filled with paperwork.

"I thought you said I had a lot to do, Charlie?" She mused, dropping the completed documents on his desk and unraveling one of the garland ropes from her person. Smiling, she held it up to the window pane, turning it this way and that. Charles winced.

"Uh…what are you doing?" She looked at him innocently, as though just realizing he was there.

"Trying to infest you with all the Christmas cheer of a thousand terminal cancer kids."

He blinked.

"You've, ah, been spending time with the guys again, haven't you?" He returned to writing, but was suddenly restrained by a garland lasso. Zoe smirked, dropping the Santa hat on his head. He let her do it, slightly bothered, but maintained his cool.

"I'm, ah, kinda busy…" he mumbled, ignoring the shoulder massage she was giving him from the side of his chair with great difficulty.

"You've been 'ah, kinda busy' since the coffee incident. When are you going to relax?" Her hands slipped down his chest, and she started unbuttoning his suit jacket. It took him a moment to come to his senses, but when he did, he heaved a heavy breath and removed her hands from his body, readjusting his clothes. Zoe paced around the front of the desk, her resignation clearly written on her features.

"Soon."

"Okay. How soon is soon?" Charles shrugged.

"After Christmas. Christmas is always the most busy time of the year, what with everyone gifting merch and, ah, whatnot." Zoe rolled her eyes and rubbed inattentively at the brand mark on the back of her neck.

"Right. After Christmas. The twenty-sixth of December."

He shot her a look that meant business.

"You know how difficult this job is already. Don't make it worse." Wrong thing to say, he knew immediately. Charles watched her face contort from shock to anger. He could practically feel her seething, and it made him sullen and moody.

"Well, forgive me, _sire_, but last I checked I was just trying to help you out." She growled, gathering her garland up in her arms, and holding out her hand expectantly. Charles snatched the Santa hat off his head and tossed it to her.

"Why are you so pissed off about this? All I said was that I was busy, and that I didn't want _my_ damn office decorated. You know, life isn't all sex and cuddles all the time, Zo."

He never thought she was capable of such an expression, but when she set her things down in the chair and placed her hands on her hips, he knew he was in for a terrible afternoon. Still, he felt justified.

"Why are _you _being so bitchy lately?" She countered without answering.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I try to make a joke- you shut me down. I ask you how your day's been going- just a 'fine'. We don't talk anymore. We don't do anything together anymore, like go walking or watch movies or even eat dinner together. I thought Christmas would be a good excuse to reconnect, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe you haven't noticed, but you've been pulling away from me in all aspects of this relationship. It takes two to tango."

"Yes, but it, ah, apparently takes six to stomp, and you and the boys have been more than I can handle lately. I need space! Between their issues, the budget this month, monitoring sales, booking shows, and taking care of you-"

"Whoa. Stop. Just…stop. What do you mean, _taking care of me_?"

Charles felt his entire body heat up, and he fought to hide the flustered, shamed expression from his face. Before he could answer, Zoe took a few steps forward and planted her hands squarely on his desk.

"Last I checked, Charles, I'm a self sufficient woman. I took care of myself before I came here, and the way we're going, I'll be taking care of myself long after I leave. Yeah, I was poisoned. Wouldn'ta happened if I wasn't here. I'm over it- why aren't you? And, while we're at it, if you need so much space when I have literally left you completely alone for the last four days to decorate, finish work, and do my own shopping and holiday things, fine. Take all the space you need. Merry freakin' Christmas."

Turning on her heel, she marched out the door, leaving a disgruntled CFO to stare once again at the small Christmas tree on his desk and try to make it spontaneously combust.

By morning the next day, dawn's light still found him in his office, lying belly-up on the couch. He'd made a deadly error when he'd given his girlfriend command of his bedroom, and he had been removed from the room before he even had a chance to change his clothes.

Zoe had sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, when Charles walked in. Neither of them spoke. He stripped down to his shirt and slacks before she had seen enough of him.

"Out."

"…huh?"

"Get out, Charles." She stood, placing a hand on his sternum and pushing him backwards out the door. He put up no resistance, not wanting to misjudge his own strength and hurt her.

"It's my room!" He cried incredulously. Zoe made a face at him.

"Not anymore."

"Can't we talk about this?"

"We did. You want space, I want sleep. I'm pretty sure there are some open rooms in the employee's quarters. But you gotta hurry- the offer expires when someone's touchy, holiday-hating boyfriend bitches her out for getting sick in a freak occurance." She snapped. Charles considered starting up the entire fight again, but didn't want anyone jumping to rash conclusions that late at night.

"Can I at least have my pillows?"

She threw one at his feet, and the other hit him in the face before she slammed the door shut on him. Dumbfounded, Charles had stood in the hall for a minute or so, gawking at the blocked entryway, before retreating to his office, infuriated.

She showed up later that morning, punctual as always, but simply waited to be assigned to a task. He gave her some of Skwisgaar's paternity cases to overturn, and she left his office, only to return when they were finished. The pattern overlapped into the rest of their lives. Charles continued sleeping on the couch in his office. They ate breakfast together in silence. Their existence as a couple hung precariously in the balance between work and play, with Zoe being the only one interested in the upcoming holiday and any attempts at communication.

This behavior continued for a few days. Both CFO and lawyer were aware that Dethklok watched their standoff curiously from the sidelines, but kept their mouths shut, for what was likely the first time in their lives. The romantic roadblock between their managers was not a battle they wanted a part in. At least, not until the first snowfall to cover Mordhaus.

Snow always had a calming effect on Zoe. She was mystified by its beauty, so on the morning when she awoke to the flakes flying from the pure white sky, she felt humbled, her pride dampened by remorse for being angry at Charles. Her loneliness far outweighed that. Unfortunately, neither was strong enough to make her apologize.

So it was an apprehensive moment when Charles motioned for her to follow him outside to address Dethklok, who were watching the new wolf pups from a relatively safe distance. She picked up her pad of paper and pencil, and he waited while she pulled on her gloves and jacket. They walked in silence in the late afternoon, the tension crackling in the air between them.

The stark whiteness of the outside world momentarily blinded them both when they exited the main Mordhaus building, and Zoe bumped into Charles' shoulder. She mumbled a quick apology, and he nodded, tuning her out. They reached Dethklok, who glanced between each other, unsure of what was to come.

"Afternoon, gentlemen. Just, ah, a couple of things to go over with you today. Skwisgaar, there's, ah, a new endorsement opportunity for you, but I'll say right now I don't think it's a wise one to take."

"Will it makes me monies?" He lazily looked up from his place on the picnic bench, shivering even in his coat. Charles raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes, but-"

"Great. Den let's do's dat."

"Don't you, ah, want to hear what it is?" The CFO prodded, not wanting to take the Swede at his word without being sure it was something he wanted his name attached to. After all, it was a bit of an ironic business move.

"Fine_. _Let's me hears it." He waited. Charles cleared his throat, a bit uncomfortable.

"Well, ah, you'd be endorsing a well-known brand of, ah, contraceptive devices." He finished his sentence quickly, coughing.

"What are cun-tras-sept-tat-teeves devices?" Skwisgaar cocked his head to the side like a dog. Beside him on the ground, Toki, who was preoccupied with making a snowman, attempted to mimic the word.

"Contraasitive devices."

"Cun-tro-seep-te-tives"

"Con-tro-sed-at-tips."

Charles winced.

"They're, ah, well…" He stuttered, adjusting his glasses. Zoe rolled her eyes.

"Oh, for crying out loud, the endorsement is for a condom company." She said, crossing her arms. Pickles looked at her curiously. Skwisgaar visibly balked at the idea.

"Bah. Dey's wants me to puts my name on de pleasure killers?"

"Ah, yes, Skwisgaar, and there are some, ah, stipulations that come with the endorsement, such as the fact that if you take the endorsement, you'll have to, ah, actually use the products they send you. You know, to do advertisements and reviews and whatnot." He could feel the heat from Zoe's glare burning holes into his temple, but was helpless to guard against it. The blond snorted.

"Ums, no's, no tanks you's." Charles tugged at his collar.

"Alright then. Moving on, ah, you boys have decided not to do a secret Santa this year, right?"

Nods all around.

"So you won't be needing your allowances in advance then?"

"Well, if you inshischt on it…" Murderface smirked.

"Actually, no, I wasn't insisting on anything. I-"

"We'll take the money." Nathan muttered. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Are you aware you have a show coming up for, ah, New Years?"

"That dependsch. Will there be boozhe?"

"Of course."

"Yeah, yeah, Chief, we'll be there and we'll be good." Pickles bent down and grabbed a fistful of snow. Balling it up, he waited his chance, then hurled it at Nathan, who caught it in the chest.

"The fuck was that, Pickles?" He bellowed, brushing himself off.

"That, Nat'an, was how you start a snowball fight." Pickles said, matter-of-factly.

Murderface snuck up behind Pickles then, and dumped an armful of the cold substance on his head. The drummer squawked unhappily, while Nathan had time to recuperate and form his own snowball. Toki jumped up, excited.

"Wowee! A snowsballs fight!" He smashed a loose snowball into Skwisgaar's face, who cursed in Swedish and flattened his companion guitarist by shoving his shins. Toki faceplanted into the ground, unharmed and giggling.

Charles felt ever more the bearer of burden, so he turned to take his leave. Zoe moved to follow him, when Pickles called out from under a mountain of snow.

"Hey! Zoe! Do ya wanna hang out with us right now?" She looked from Charles to Pickles, shaking her head.

"I'd love to, but the warden here," she started, jabbing her thumb in Charles' direction, "won't let me come out to play."

All of Dethklok made a sort of congenial condolence noise.

"Well why the feck not? It's Christmas Eve, for feck's sake!"

"Sorry guys, we've, ah, got work to do." Charles answered tersely, and Pickles scowled at the back of his head. Zoe had taken the opportunity to make a snowball of her own, playfully tossing it at the drummer, who grinned and threw one back.

All at once, Zoe was being pummeled by packed snow grenades from all five members of Dethklok, and her laughter rang throughout the courtyard as she shielded her body. Charles huffed, peeved, and continued his retreat.

Suddenly everyone stopped, waiting. Murderface had thrown a particularly big snowball with a particularly hard arm at Zoe, who had seen it in time and ducked.

It hit Charles square in the back of the head.

Silence settled over the entire yard. Even the pups had retreated to their den and were quietly suckling. Zoe's look of shock melted into a stifled fit of giggles, and she put a gloved hand to her mouth. Charles twitched, melting drops of the wet snow rolling down into his shirt collar and freezing him out.

"Are you okay?" Zoe finally asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Charles nodded.

"Who threw it?"

"Murderface." She smirked as she ratted him out, enjoying the traitorous glare he sent her way. Charles rubbed at his neck, and moved to continue his retreat into Mordhaus, but a lisping voice stopped him.

"Pusshy."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, pusssss-" Murderface did not have time to finish reiterating his statement, because he was suddenly chewing on a mouthful of snow. Charles clapped his gloves together, wiping the snow from the leather palms. Pickles chuckled. Nathan smirked. Toki and Skwisgaar looked at each other.

And suddenly Mordhaus' yard was a battlefield. Zoe shrieked, snow flying in all directions, and abandoned Charles' side to escape the fallout. Pickles called her name, and she dove behind the barricade wall he'd finished building up. Huddled behind the wall with the drummer, who had his knees pulled into his chest and was forming snowballs as fast as he could while keeping a weather eye on the expanse of earth that was their new playground, she caught her breath.

"Somethin' up between you and the Chief?" He mused, turning to whip a snowball in Skwisgaar's direction before narrowly avoiding the retaliation. Zoe peeked around the wall, gauging everyone's position. As usual, everyone had split into some form of teams. It could easily be described as the great snowball battle: Scandinavians versus redheads versus those with speech impediments- namely, lisps, stutters, and a need to say "um" when speaking for long periods of time.

"Yeah. We're fighting…" She sighed, replenishing the snowball stock after Pickles had drilled a hole through the fort of the speech-impaired.

"Well, don't do that. Makes us kinda nervous."

"Psht. It isn't that easy, Pickles. You know how he is."

Pickles nodded sagely, but gave her an even look.

"Are you sure it's entirely his fault?"

She didn't have a chance to answer, however, because beyond their pow-wow, a piercing battle cry was uttered in Norwegian from behind the picnic table, and Toki charged the team that was Nathan, Murderface, and Charles with a barrage of snowballs sailing every which way. Murderface's attempt at using Nathan as a shield only got him knocked into Charles, who tumbled out into the open and was instantly made the target of the guitarist. He scrambled to his feet, tossing ammunition at Toki as he was chased around the yard, indulging in the game for once. Pickles and Zoe looked at each other, grinning, before joining the attack.

"Get him!" She screamed, and the counter-attack that Skwisgaar had been planning for the redheads was turned on Charles, who could do nothing except keep running. Everyone began to bombard the CFO with snow, and he was doing a fair job of avoiding them, until Zoe climbed up and vaulted over the table, effectively getting within range to corner him.

"No!" He said, breathless, when she started whipping the non-explosive grenades at him. A fit of laughter escaped his throat, a rare experience for Dethklok. They piled on the snow, and he twisted away, on the run once again.

"Apologize and we'll stop!" Zoe yelled, receiving an armful of snowballs from Toki and taking up the hunt once again.

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Yes, you did!" Charles ducked behind one of the makeshift forts, finally able to return fire. Dethklok slowly came to the realization that this battle was really between two people, and though they still threw snowballs, their words died down.

"What? Tell me what I did and I'll tell you if it requires an apology." He growled, wiping the snow from his glasses. Zoe was becoming angry.

"Ever since I was poisoned you've been treating me like I'm made of glass. Newsflash! I'm still alive!" She advanced, her snowballs flying fast and furious. The area behind the fort clear of ammunition and extra snow, Charles returned to running. But he didn't anticipate how fast his opponent could run, and she tripped him in mid stride.

Charles fell to the ground hard, skidding a short distance before rolling over and being jumped by an angry lawyer. She pummeled him with snow, and he tried to push her off gently.

"See? That's what I mean, Charles! You used to bare no holds on me. You trained me to protect then. I am not a wimpy little girl that needs saving from the monsters under her bed. You didn't even put up a fight when I kicked you out of your own room!" Charles threw her off balance suddenly, rolling her over into the snow.

"Well what do you want from me, Zoe? Do you want me to hurt you? Do you want me to watch you get hurt? Is that what you want?" He pinned her arms to the ground above her head, but the wind was unexpectedly knocked out of him when she kneed him in the crotch. It was the first time she'd done any damage not involving a snowball. Temporarily taken by surprise, Zoe had the opportunity to flip their tangle of arms and legs once again, and then rolled Charles onto his stomach, sitting on his lower back and shoving his face into the snow. Dethklok flinched, amusedly watching the childish fight between two typically reserved entities.

"No! I want you to stop being such a dick and get back to normal. Treat me like an equal, or I quit. Those are my freaking demands." Charles squirmed, his face freezing. She tugged on his hair, lifting his head out of the snow just long enough for him to answer. He sputtered, his lips numb.

"You can't quit. And I do treat you like an equal." Back into the snow.

"Then stop acting like such a pushover and man up. For Christ's sakes, Charles, tap the fuck out!" She continued to whitewash him violently until he finally wormed an arm out from under her knee and slammed an open palm down on the ground several times.

Solitude settled over the yard again, the snow muting any echoes, and the wind covered Zoe's heavy breathing. This lapse, however, was much more comfortable than the previous ones. Dethklok looked down at the defeated lump that was their manager, and the victor slowly dismounting from his back, and began a slow clap.

"That was fuckin' brutal." Nathan commented as Charles rolled over, gasping for air like a fish on a dock. He tried to glare at the frontman, but found his glasses were not only covered in snow, but fogged from his own breathing. Zoe looked up at Nathan while she resettled herself on top of her lover, straddling Charles' stomach.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. He let me win. He could've slaughtered me before he even hit the ground. But he didn't." Pickles rubbed at the back of his head.

"Well, maybe it was outta respect, with you bein' a lady and all." Zoe huffed.

"It's _snow_. Freakin' snow. It's not like it would've killed me." At that, Dethklok filed inside, leaving the two of them alone in the yard.

"Now. What are you going to do, Charles?" She leaned over him, shielding him from the cold wind with her body, seeing as he was utterly soaked.

"I'm going to, ah, treat you like an equal."

"What else?"

"I'm going to take my room back."

"Very good. What else?" She took his glasses off, cleaning them with her sleeve.

"I'm, ah, going to do this."

Zoe gasped when Charles rubbed a fistful of snow in her face, smirking. The shocked expression only continued to obscure her pretty features for another moment, for he pulled her down into a long kiss. His tongue probed her bottom lip, and she put up a fight, not willing to open up. It was only when Charles smacked her ass that she yelped in surprise, and he was able to slip his tongue in her mouth, wrestling hers into submission.

She pulled back, regaining her composure.

"That's better." She smiled, climbing off him and offering him a hand. He took it and slowly got to his feet, shivering. Zoe wrapped an arm around Charles' waist, handing him back his glasses.

"I'm sorry. I just…I was, ah, afraid that if something else happened…" He stuttered, and she put a finger to his lips.

"I know. It's alright. And I'm sorry, too. I've been a real jerk lately, and you're right- I've been trying to cling when I shouldn't be clinging. I was scared, too. But, anyway. C'mon- let's get you warmed up before you catch a cold."

* * *

That evening, everyone sat in the RecRoom, Charles included. He'd already made a promise weeks in advance to drink with them on Christmas Eve, and held himself to it. The alcohol filtered through his system, and he was pleasantly buzzed and feeling much warmer than he had since he'd gone inside. He undid his collar button and the second button down, leaning back in the lounge chair.

The giant, specially grown Christmas tree twinkled in the center of the room, the lights strobing red and gold. The actual branches had been genetically altered to grow black. The ornaments were shaped like various torture weapons and bottles of booze. Everything from saw blades to bombs to Tomahawk missiles adorned its branches, keeping company with renditions of Heineken, Jagermeister, and Grey Goose bottles. The tinsel was made from shredded pieces of beer cans, and the twinkling star on top glittered with drops of mercury between the glass. Nathan looked it over thoughtfully from his place on the couch.

"Huh. It's not so bad." He murmured. Charles, too, cast a glance at the tree, sipping yet another beer.

"See, Nathan? Christmas can, ah, be metal too."

"Hey, I said it wasn't so bad. I didn't say it was the fuckin' poster tree for brutality."

"Stop talking about the tree, it's very sensitive!" A female voice echoed from down the hall, and Zoe appeared. Charles' swimmy vision focused on her, and he stifled a sigh.

The other members of Dethklok tried to avoid staring, as they knew Charles would get back at them, but their poor judgment only worsened when inebriated.

"Holy crap!" Pickles hiccupped, strategically placing his seventh bottle of the night in his lap to hide his enthusiasm.

"Heys, Ofdensens, yous don't has a secrets Santas. You's have a secrets stripper!" Skwisgaar remarked, leaning over to nudge his manager in the ribs from the adjacent chair.

Zoe shook her head, the pom-pom on her Santa hat softly hitting her ears. She grinned, sashaying over to Charles while singing "Santa Baby" softly under her breath. He smiled as she settled herself in his lap, crossing her legs and tugging on her fur-trimmed miniskirt.

"Well this is, ah, unexpected." He remarked as she once again moved the hat from her head to his. It looked absolutely ridiculous, and she giggled.

"Just thought I'd be your Santa, if you don't mind me being a space invader." She murmured against his neck, biting gently, and knowing that because he was well on his way to getting drunk, he wouldn't protest the fact that it was in front of the band.

"Mm…not at all."

Charles tipped his head back, and Skwisgaar leered at the woman perched on the CFO's left leg.

"Cans you be ours Santas, too?" Zoe wrinkled her nose at him.

"No, sorry boys, I got you some presents, but Santa only visits Charles tonight." Charles moaned in ecstasy as she nipped at his jawline. He melted against the chair, and the fire roaring in the fireplace exposed the flush creeping up his neck and chest. Murderface groaned.

"Get a room, you two. I mean, really. It'sch bad enough when Skwischgaar does it."

"Ands I does not do's that right nows."

"Yeah. Makes me sick just lookin' at 'em, dood."

"Ugh. It's so…it's just…argh, it's disgusting! It's like watching your parents fucking…kiss or something." Nathan spewed, munching on a Christmas cookie.

Toki just snored in response, his empty beer bottle rolling across the floor when he dropped it in his sleep. Zoe chuckled, tugging on Charles' belt. Nathan growled and pressed his face into the couch, eliminating the grotesque vision from his slight and eliciting a trill of delighted laughter from the scantily clad Santa on his manager's lap.

"I thinks I ams goings to be sick." Skwisgaar whimpered, clutching his stomach. The rest of the band sighed in agreement.

"Oh, come on, it's not _that_ bad, is it?" Zoe purred, kissing Charles on the cheek. Pickles feigned a retching noise, shoving his finger in his mouth for emphasis.

"Fine. Then he comes with me."

"TAKE HIM." Nathan thundered, wanting the horror that was the couple beside him to be gone from his retinas and erased from his mind.

Standing, Zoe tugged on Charles hand, and he got to his feet, wobbling only slightly. His arm encircled her waist, a self-righteous smile seemingly plastered to his lips. The Santa hat comically slipped to one side, and he saluted the band as Zoe dragged him off in the direction of their bedroom.

"Merry, ah, Christmas, guys." He murmured before giving in to her incessant tug. When the sound of their footsteps was gone, The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fireplace. Nathan looked up, confirming their absence.

"This is why we should never do another Christmas again."

With that, they all proceeded to drink as much as it took to make sure they had no memory of the entire day, let alone that night.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"Gentlemen, we have a very new kind of situation." Senator Stampingston bore an atypical expression of worry as he addressed the rest of the Tribunal. He paused, almost for dramatic effect, before one of his peers leaned forward and glared at him.

"Dammit, man, get on with it." General Crozier barked. "We're all very busy and we don't have time for melodrama and shenanigans."

The senator looked ruffled, but simply plunged a hand into his pocket and continued.

"It seems Dethklok's manager, Charles Ofdensen, has acquired a girlfriend."

Crozier raised an eyebrow. This was what had interrupted his schedule? A relationship that wasn't even really relative to the band? Sure, he was the one to discover this, but he'd never expected it to be so detrimental as to require an emergency meeting.

Images of Charles and Zoe suddenly graced the large screen before the members of the organization. Award ceremonies, public outings, and, surprisingly, a poor-quality satellite picture of them during the snowball fight at Mordhaus,

"Um…" Crozier didn't really know where this was going. He glanced over at Vater Orlaag, who looked nonplussed.

"We have an expert here to explain to us just how grisly the effects of such a union could be. This is Dr. Julienne Spieglartner, a semi-celebrity relationship specialist. Dr. Spieglartner?"

The lanky man stepped forward. Crozier was not impressed, but hid his annoyance.

"Charles Ofdensen is the machine that keeps Dethklok running as smoothly as possible. He devotes his life to Dethklok, and very little is known about him otherwise. Now, in a normal relationship, the two parties in question must make time for each other and play through the game of courtship, also known as 'dating.' They must spend time together, focus on each other, go out to dinner, dancing, movies…" the expert trailed off when the Tribunal looked at him curiously. He straightened his pink tie and ran a nervous hand through his curly blond hair.

"Ahm, needless to say, Charles Ofdensen does not fit the profile of a normal, doting boyfriend. Or, rather, he hasn't, until this point. He now hangs precariously in the balance between work and pleasure, and it seems Dethklok knows about his romantic tryst, as well."

"What's that got to do with us?" Crozier was growing antsy. The angle of the Tribunal still wasn't getting through to him, for once. In fact, he secretly envied Charles. He found the woman he was with very pretty, albeit inordinately, and looked as though she had a good head on her shoulders.

"Ofdensen's iron fist over Dethklok has now opened slightly to allow this relationship. While it appears to increase his vigilance over the band, in all actuality, one cannot have such a union and not be blinded to the little things that occur around them. This could end in the destruction of the band from the inside out, if he is not attentive enough to protect them from the dangers of their fame, and their own inner demons. Not only that, but his lady friend also appears to be his assistant, which means there is direct contact with the band. Such a relationship between Ofdensen and this woman could lead to terminal friction between him and Dethklok, resulting in a catastrophic meltdown between this major force and the engine that drives them."

Spieglartner stepped back, covertly wiping his sweaty palms on his pinstripe slacks as the group appeared to mull this over. The wheels in Crozier's head began turning when the truth sank in. He stared hard at the picture of Charles and Zoe at the farmstand, frustrated with the carefree smile on Ofdensen's face and the calculated understanding in his eyes.

"Ofdensen grows weak with lust, General Crozier. This could be our chance to dismantle Dethklok once and for all." Orlaag commented, taking the words out of Crozier's mouth. He hated it when his bearded rival did that. However, Orlaag was agreeing with him, so his train of thought couldn't have been as vague as he'd anticipated. They had a surefire in, sooner than anticipated.

"We could send a man in. Undercover. Infiltrate the ranks, see how Ofdensen and his…_assistant_, interact." He mused, aware that the man in the throne was staring at the side of his head. This was not the first time he'd plugged for that idea, and if accepted, not the first time it would be executed.

"We should disrupt their union as soon as possible, and force Ofdensen to choose between his job and his lover. Either way, it gives us enough time to destroy Dethklok." Orlaag refuted Crozier's meandering plan with one much more straightforward. The general shook his head.

"Who is this woman, anyway?"

"Her name is Zoe Warwick. Twenty-six years old, from Framingham, Massachusetts. As of right now, I'm afraid that's all we know about her." Stampingston commented, glancing up at the monitor. The smiling woman looked harmless, but he knew better. It was ironic, really. Love was the least brutal emotion the human race fell subject to, and it was the one that would hopefully lead to Dethklok's undoing.

Crozier moved to open his mouth, about to suggest an interrogation and assassination, but a whispered voice cut him off and sent chills down his spine, as usual. Mr. Selatcia looked almost amused.

"We will allow the dead man to have this relationship. We will see where it leads. And we will watch him very carefully."

* * *

A man and a woman stood on the edge of the line that divided the land owned by Dethklok from the rest of the world. The man handed a pair of high-powered binoculars to his companion, who scanned the area with a frown.

"Ze border is vell garded, yes?" She commented. The man shrugged.

"Mm. But I'm sure that won't be a problem for you." Beneath the binoculars, the painted lips turned upwards into a sick looking smile.

"It von't be."

"Good. See that you ready yourselves quickly. We move again in seven days."

"Yes, sir."

She handed the man back his binoculars and turned away, pulling her cloak tighter against the cool wind.

"Are you having second thoughts?" He queried, removing a tactical knife from his boot. Opening the weapon, he carelessly toyed with it, the tip drawing a drop of blood from his index finger.

"_Nein._ It's just that…" she trailed off, uncertain of how to proceed.

Suddenly, a hand shot out and grabbed her by the back of the head, reeling her in towards the outstretched blade. Horror played through her dark eyes, but she did not scream.

"Just _what_?" The man demanded, the blade of the knife pressed against her throat. She collected herself.

"It's just that it is so very sudden. Ve vill be ready- vill you?" He let her go, and she sank to her knees, rubbing at the tiny cut beneath her chin. Her superior threw the knife down, where it sunk into the thawing earth with a dull thud. Chuckling, he began a retreat from his place on the mountainside.

"Don't you worry. We've been ready for quite some time. There's just one more thing I have to take care of tonight."

Before she could ask her next question, the darkness had enveloped his form, and she was alone.

* * *

Winter melted away into spring. For Zoe, this meant an undeniable urge to clean and be generally high-spirited. Life at Mordhaus quickly re-embarked on its usual path of chaos and destruction, and no one appeared worse for wear when it came to "Zarles", as Murderface had quaintly dubbed their relationship in the celebrity rag fashion following _Brangelina_, _Bennifer, _and the group's old favorite, _Natebecca. _Charles, in contrast to his other half's burgeoning happiness, watched over his empire with an even harsher hawk's eye. He now had three faces to wash nightly- the professional face he gave the media and the band, the lover's face he gave only to Zoe, and the face of someone much, much more cynical and ominous. On the surface, he played the game well. No one suspected a thing. But just below the façade, a constant feeling of unrest that had erupted on the night of the poisoning prompted him to double his efforts in wakefulness against any threats. There were just too many "if's," too many questions and too many pieces that he saw beginning to fit together. And when L.I.N.D.A. had turned up nothing about his attackers on a second scan, his unease had risen through the roof.

Thankfully, Zoe and Dethklok were both completely oblivious to that fact, and in the closeness he shared (though in different forms) with all of them, he was honestly surprised someone hadn't approached him about being even more stuffy than usual.

Of course, placating the band with guys' nights out and Zoe with slightly hungover brunch dates was definitely helping. He'd even let her drag him on a shoe shopping trip. Being unused to the inner workings of women on a whole, an excursion he'd expected to last fifteen minutes at most, not counting travel time, had turned into four hours and six different stores' worth of:

"_Do you think these would look alright with the slate suit?"_

"_Ah, which one is that?"_

"_Ugh. The darker, cooler gray than the basic gray? The one with the notched lapel and a-line pencil skirt?"_

"_Uhh…."_

"_Nevermind. What about these?"_

Charles was running himself ragged between being a regular jackoff, a chief financial officer and band manager, and an armchair reconnaissance artist. He thanked whatever powers there were that he was excellent under stress. But, at least, everyone was content, including himself, in most instances. Except for that evening. Something just felt wrong. Distantly, but still. It was there.

Sitting alone in his office, he flashed back to the beating bequeathed to him by the assassin who wore the metal mask. Farther back still, to when he first encountered his dastardly opponent. Forward, to the Tower of London. And then to the woman who he had slaughtered in the hospital corridor. An agent of something. But what?

Were they connected? The face of the woman stuck in his mind. He knew he had never seen her before that night, so why then? And why silence for nearly five months since? Nothing made sense, even as he wracked his brain for any clues as to what was really going on, beyond what he already knew. He glared into his brandy, sipping it, and stopped pacing, before kneeling down by the safe and dialing it open.

Charles sat down at his desk, surface work temporarily neglected, and spread the papers out before him for what felt like the hundredth time. Newspaper clippings, legal documents, dossiers… things he could keep close to him without falling under too much suspicion. The rest was either imprinted on his memory or locked up in various places around the globe and in his "basement." Rubbing at his eyes in the late hours, he diligently poured over the sensitive information he had collected, combining it with the visions in his mind.

Words began to jump out at him, as they usually did when he had been at it for too long and became prone to flights of fancy. _Revengencer_, _Selatcia_, _Crozier_, _FalconBack_…the accumulation of meaningful nothingness he had gathered in his nine-month absence. Why nothing, no movement, no chatter, for so long now? It was unlike them not to make an attempt on Dethklok's life, or to at least mull over the notion. Why —

His door opened, and he set a folder full of stock market projections over the delicate material. Zoe peeked her head into his office, looking sleepy.

"Coming to bed soon, sweetie?" She murmured, her cream silk nightgown clinging to her body in all the right places for him to instantly become a little flustered.

"In a, ah, moment. I lost track of time."

"Mmkay. Hey."

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I, ah, love you, too."

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little awkward at the sudden admission of their well-known emotions, and shot her a soft smile to make up for it and prove to her that he was being genuine. She grinned back and shut the door again, retreating to the safety of the covers.

Charles heaved a sigh and gathered the papers into a neat stack, replacing them in the safe and checking it twice to ensure it was locked. He then set everything in order for the next day's work. A thought crossed his mind as he gazed out over the mountains that surrounded what he had once naively thought of as an impenetrable fortress.

Suddenly, his door slipped open again.

"Honey, I said I'd be there in a few," he chuckled.

"Uh…milord?"

Charles blanched when he heard the confused male voice from behind him, and turned slowly.

"Ah…disregard."

"Of course, sire. Already forgotten." It sounded like the Klokateer was desperately trying not to laugh.

With a thinly-set frown, the manager waited impatiently for the gear to regain his composure.

"Um, sire, there seems to be a problem near the Klokateer's quarters-"

"Well take care of it." He barked, a bit annoyed that he had been bothered for something so trivial.

"Uh…we, uh, we would, but we can't figure out what's causing it." The hood babbled.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, you know our computers have been running slowly intermittently for quite a few months now, sire. Suddenly, though, every single computer in the sector flickered and shut off, and when they came back online, they were running as fast as they should be. We're also smelling the strong scent of smoke, but we can't seem to find the source."

Charles' brow knitted together, until it occurred to him that there was a very good reason why they couldn't find the source of the problem. He stood up and stalked out wordlessly. When the gear tried to follow him, the manager ordered him back to his quarters, assuring him he would remedy the issue.

He hurried to his secret segment of Mordhaus, which bordered the Klokateer's quarters behind a double wall. Sure enough, the smell grew stronger as he approached. Charles worked his way through the sealed doors, feeling the heat intensify after passing each one, until he was looking into his hidden domain with confusion.

The giant touch screen computer known as "Linda" was throwing off sparks like it was the fourth of July, and its display was wavering in and out of existence, constantly trading places with a blank black screen. Her digital voice was incessantly repeating "Error! Full System Error," among spewing streams of code that meant very little to the manager, tech savvy as he had become. Thick smoke billowed up around the ceiling. He flicked on the ventilation system and the lights, making sure nothing had happened to his physical accumulations. It seemed the photo on the wall had been scorched and some of the folders on the table were starting to flame up, but otherwise, the metal filing cabinets had protected his assets. He put out the tiny flames with ease, turning to the giant computer and feeling a couple sparkbites catch his face and hands.

"What happened?" He demanded. Linda's response was garbled, and he couldn't make anything out other than "virtual hardware acceleration."

He was about to ask the computer if it could be fixed, when a window popped up on screen. Reading what it contained, he grimaced.

_Final warning, Charles Ofdensen._

And then the computer shutdown completely, with all the external processing farms father back in the room popping and whirring to a standstill, one after another. Charles ducked behind a cabinet to avoid the majority of the new sparks, covering his face with his arms. Finally, the sizzling noises stopped, and he peered out from behind the cabinet, angrily taking stock of the situation.

No more Linda. No more super-computer, other than the mainframe that ran Mordhaus, which seemed to be untouched. It was still brilliantly designed, but it wasn't suited to what he'd been doing with his data-crawler when it had to focus on so many other functions. Carefully following protocol, he moved the photographs and files out of reach of any more sparks, and then killed the power to the device with the breaker box in the room for just such instances. Reaching for the Halotron fire extinguisher, he put out the remainder of the tiny flames and sparks with a glare of passive agitation, even though his stomach was twisting in knots.

Final warning? So the previous incidents weren't aimed to kill, after all? And what was he being warned for? It made little sense.

What on earth was he dealing with?

Shaking his head, Charles babysat the room for just a bit longer, ensuring no more flames were going to appear, before unplugging everything in the area, killing the lights and the fan, and resealing all the doors, all while his mind was working at top speed. Whoever his opponents were, they obviously oblivious to the fact that he was a huge purveyor of the phrase "more than one way to skin a cat." He never took any action without backup scenarios in place, whether they were just hypothetical or practiced and methodically developed. And he certainly had more than one way to obtain any information he required.

Tomorrow, he would pay Edgar Jomfru a visit.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

"Charles Ofdensen. Back again, I see. It's been a while." The man before the glowing contraption mused, leaning forward from the murky shadows.

"Hello, Edgar. I've, ah, got some information I need." Charles' shoulders hunched- his whole body was always on red alert when dealing with the likes of the remaining Jomfru brother since the attack, even though the threat was utterly neutralized. Edgar smirked, his face as close to Charles as he could possibly get it.

"Need? Or, perhaps, is it want?" It was eerie how well the detained captive could read him, sometimes. Charles glared at him silently, and Edgar chuckled.

"Ah, so it's a bit of both. Well, all things come with a price, Charlie." Edgar lolled back in his chair, a seedy smirk plastered to his bulbous face. Charles stalked forward, looking down his nose at his prisoner.

"I don't have time for games." He muttered, cracking his knuckles in a gesture of power. The handicapped man simply made a face of false horror, throwing up his hands in surrender.

"Oh, Charles, no! Don't hurt me Charles!" He mocked the CFO, fueling Charles' deep-seated, but typically well maintained rage over the things he couldn't quite grasp without help. Edgar laughed, and Charles was unable to contain himself. He hauled off and smacked his captive across the face, earning himself a disheveled glare of annoyance. A Klokateer who had been at the door stepped forward.

"My lord, I-"

Charles waved his hand dismissively behind him, never breaking eye contact with Edgar.

"Leave us."

The Klokateer did as he was told, and the cell door shut tightly. They were alone.

"What do you want?"

"Freedom."

"Forget it." Charles hissed. He was impatient to get what he needed, or at least get it started.

"Then there is no deal." Edgar crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "It's your move, Charles. Then again," he gestured at his imprisonment, "it always is."

Charles clenched his teeth, lashing out again to strike his prisoner. He had built up a lot of anger over the long hours spent pondering the night before, and it had to go somewhere. Edgar panted, his neck creaking. One of the monitor wires that had been connected to his forehead pulled loose, and dangled beside his ear.

"You can't kill me, Charles." He barked. "You need me. You need me alive."

Edgar watched with a hidden fascination as Charles' hand dove inside his jacket, rooting around for something in what appeared to be the inner pocket.

"What is it, Mister Ofdensen? Are you experiencing lady trouble?" His voice was disgustingly sweet. Though Charles didn't flinch, Edgar knew the answer.

"Oh, yes, I know. I know a lot about you and her. Zoe, right? Hmm. How would lesser minds express themselves on this? Oh, I know. Not a bad piece of ass, though a little grotesque in the face for my taste. I'm inclined to believe that sort of thing is your preference, given the external façade of those you work for."

Another well-deserved backhand. Edgar was beginning to look frustrated, and made a grab at Charles' free hand, but missed.

"You can't even hurt me, if you want me to cooperate. Let's face it- I've become your vice, Charles. Whenever you can't discover something on your own- a startlingly commonplace occurrence, I might add- you come running to me. It is quite entertaining."

Charles found what he was looking for, and extracted it from his pocket. Edgar looked at the device, which resembled a double ended tuning fork, in confusion for a moment before realizing what it was. The manager slipped the leather loop through the hole in the double ended fork, before standing over Edgar with a dangerously off-kilter glint in his eye.

"You wouldn't dare use that on me." Edgar challenged, though he feared for his life. In answer, the CFO pressed a button on the machine monitoring Edgar's physical vital signs, and his entire chair lifted and began to pull back from him, leaving him writing in the air by the waist restraint. Suddenly, though, Charles seemed to waver, and then backed down, shaking his head and returning the disabled man to floor level.

"No. You're absolutely right. I wouldn't." He set the heretic fork down out of reach and turned away from Edgar, who chanced a self-righteous grin.

"See how much easier things are when you do them my way? Now, let's discuss my liberation from this unbearably campy chamber, shall we?" Edgar was still grinning when the standing man offered him a penetrating glare. The smile slowly slid from his lips.

"Let me finish. I wouldn't use that. Takes too long. I'd, ah, use this." Charles continued in a voice almost inhumanly delicate. From an outer pocket, he produced a small, leather-bound case, no bigger than a basic wallet. Edgar eyed it both cautiously and curiously.

Flicking the latch, he saw was a glint of metal in his peripheral vision, before the manager advanced on him with infernally sadistic intent.

* * *

Edgar's screams went unheard by anyone except Charles. Even if someone had heard, however, no one would have gone to investigate. It wasn't their place.

An hour later, the disabled man gasped for air, his mouth opening and closing repetitively. All that came out, however, was a pitiful whimper, and his own weakness quietly infuriated him. Charles cleaned the blood off the thick metal slats with a handkerchief before placing them with an almost loving hand back in the case, and that disappeared back into his pocket. Smoothing his jacket out disaffectedly and checking to be certain he had no blood on his clothes, he approached the door, calling back over his shoulder.

"That was fun. We should, ah, do this again sometime." Slamming the door on his way out, Edgar howled in anguish once more as he began to set himself to work on Charles' bidden task, his hands bleeding profusely all over his keyboard and barely able to move.

* * *

"Hey." Charles crawled up over Zoe, who buried her face in the sheets.

"Nmmgh." She mumbled incoherently. Charles smiled, nuzzling her cheek.

"It's time to, ah, get up now."

"'S'not. Go away." He could see her lips twitching, trying to avoid turning up into a smile.

He chuckled, poking her between the ribs and waiting for her reaction. Zoe squeaked, thrashing, as Charles began to ruthlessly tickle her like the tyrant warlord he was. She ended up tangling herself in the bed sheets, however, unable to fight back, so that her lover had full target range for his chosen torture. Charles flipped Zoe over on the bed while she struggled to keep her diaphragm from rupturing with laughter. Pinning her, he began to harass the area behind her knees, which, he knew, would earn him a smack upside the head later on. Zoe screamed in blissful agony, wormed her way out from under Charles by crawling military-style to the headboard, turned over, and promptly fell off the bed. She landed, unharmed, on her backside, still overcome with fits of giggles.

Charles held out a hand to the woman, who gladly took it, but was caught off guard when she yanked him off the bed and down on top of her. Like unruly children, they began to wrestle. He easily overpowered Zoe, but she fought hard. When they were finished, he sat back against the bed frame, taking deep breaths and wiping the sweat from his brow. Zoe followed suit.

"You're, ah, getting good at that." He commented, looking over at her as she examined a chipped nail. Pride and affection welled up in his chest.

"Good at what?"

"Defensive blocking." She looked up at him, taking his hand in hers.

"Well, I do have a great teacher." Charles leaned over and kissed Zoe on the forehead, and then stood up, brushing himself off.

"Training room around eleven?" He queried, fixing his disheveled state in the mirror. Zoe groaned, making a show of crawling back into bed and curling up into a ball. Charles quirked an eyebrow in her direction.

"Do we have to? I have cramps." She whined, and tried to reach the bottle of Midol on the nightstand without moving. Coming up short, she was just barely able to brush it with her fingertips, and made a tiny sound of determination.

"From what?" He wasn't able to stop himself from asking what had to be the stupidest question of his life, even though he'd figured it out halfway through his sentence. Charles blushed, a little embarrassed on both of their accounts, as Zoe stopped reaching and looked at him with an odd face.

"Oh." Was all he said, handing the pills to her without looking her in the eye.

"Uh, yeah. Thank you. Babe, do you even keep track of what day it is anymore, or do you just let them unfold as they come? Because I think you of all people would know when I'm at my bitchiest." She unscrewed the cap and shook a pill out into her hand. Charles smiled and then handed her the glass of water that was also on the nightstand.

"You're never 'bitchy,' Zo."

"Suuuuure." She drawled after swallowing. "What planet are _you_ from?"

"This one. I just prefer to consider you 'unruly.'" He said. Zoe lightly kicked him in the thigh with a bare foot.

"You're not supposed to break down and agree with me! Though...I suppose the court holds no objections to that, really. My closing statement: Do we _have _to?"

"Yes, we have to. It's important. You'll, ah, thank me eventually."

Zoe sprawled, languid, on the giant mattress, feet, hair, and hands comically sticking out every which way from an amassed lump of sheets.

"Right. Sure. Whatever. Can we take lunch outside, then? It's a nice day."

He paused at the door, contemplating.

"Kick my ass at fencing and then, ah, we'll talk." She moaned.

"Stop patronizing me! You just think I'm fat, don't you? Godammit, tell me I'm pretty!"

"Love you." He was out the door before she got any more stereotypical.

"Love you too!" She called after him, hoping to get at least another hour's sleep before he sent Toki to wake her up- which, she had come to discover, was highly unpleasant.

As an afterthought, knowing he could still hear her down the hall if she yelled loud enough, she screamed,

"Why don't you look at me anymore when we make love?"

A few meandering Klokateers feared for their lives days later, after Charles turned beet-red in front of them.

* * *

The man sat alone, thinking. He looked at the crumpled photograph distantly, before averting his eyes to stare into his drink. She was dead to him. They all were. He had his reasons for pursuing this course of action, and he positive they were considered good ones. Delicatly he picked up his prized Desert Eagle and began to clean it, almost tenderly. But something was very wrong about the actions he considered "tender." The man sat there, in the half-light, numbly caring for the gun, before he heard a door slam.

The smell of cigarette smoke hit him before he saw her in his peripheral vision, heard her purr of approval as she moved throughout the room, picking up this and that and examining her surroundings.

"Ze gun is nice."

"Thanks." A puff of smoke touched his cheek, and he almost jumped. She was closer than he thought, and slowly, he turned to look at her, but not before being certain his face was devoid of all emotion.

"But jou vill be using something, ah, bigger than that, yes?" She leaned forward, crazed eyes glimmering in the candle light. The breathtaking beauty he was presented with, however, did nothing to alter his opinion of her. He nodded, and she smirked.

"Yeah. What do you want?" He focused on wiping down the barrel, watching its hypnotic metallic shimmer. The flame flickered and danced on the cold metal.

"Not'ing. Not'ing at all." He was becoming agitated, and it showed as a vein stood out prominently in his forehead. The woman crossed behind him and ran her fingers through his hair.

"You came here for something, bitch." He heard a sigh above him, and felt a yank on his follicles.

"My, but ve are anxious tonight. If jou must know, I am here simply to tell jou that ve vill be in need of more ammunition, _my liege_."

It was the man's turn to smirk, and he leaned back in his chair, reassembling the weapon with a deadly accurate ease.

"No. If all goes well, you won't."

"Vhy not?"

"Just wait and see." He rasped, and the woman shrugged, mounting the stairs again. At the top landing, she turned back to him.

"Jour hair…it is very silky. Und such a beautiful color."

He fired a warning shot into the wall beside her after quickly loading the weapon, reminding her of her place in his world.

The man's hair flashed copper in the glow of the flame as he turned back to his work.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Selatcia waited. Patience was a virtue, and he was well-practiced in said virtue. After all, he'd been waiting for hundreds of years for his primary goal to see fruition. He could wait a little longer. Orlaag, however, was not as fortunately gifted, and Selatcia could feel his mounting impatience, though he said nothing. They sat in silence.

Crozier finally appeared in the doorway, expression darkly neutral, as always. The tinted light source took him a moment to adjust to, and he squinted as he stepped over the threshold.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, General. Approach." Vater Orlaag commanded for his master, and Crozier came to a halt in front of Selatcia's chair.

"It is about Charles Ofdensen. You have a history of being involved in…unauthorized operations concerning Dethklok." The bearded man began his lecture, but was silenced by a single movement from the elder man, who leaned forward in his practical throne.

"Crozier."

"Sir?"

"I have reconsidered. Dead men tell no tales. He is still speaking. See to it that he is silenced."

"Yes, sir." Crozier was filled with anticipation. He finally had the go-ahead to take Charles out any way he chose, and it gave him a low-key sense of excitement, topped only by the sensation he felt when he saw the symbol of the spread-wing eagle lording over the Earth out the corner of his eye in the holographic projection. He turned to leave, and was almost at the door when Orlaag excused himself from Selatcia's presence and followed him.

Outside the room, the religious expert spoke in a hushed tone in the darkened hall.

"There is a man whom you may be interested in contacting. We've been watching him for a while now. He might be just what you need to accomplish this little feat. Rest assured, general, it won't prove easy." He warned. Crozier nodded.

"I know that. Who is he?"

* * *

Charles wasn't usually one to be overwrought with nervousness, but this was to be new territory for him. He could hardly believe what he was considering for later that night, but there he was, standing at the crossroads of seven different lives that were all about to re-intersect in a way he never would've imagined. There was that, and the information Edgar was collecting made him nearly insane with worry and impatience.

Zoe flicked a drop of water off the end of his nose, looking up at him with big brown eyes. He noted the expression they held. Her eyes always seemed to speak to him, and that evening, they spoke volumes of unwavering trust, faith, and adoration. It mirrored most of what he felt about her. The only difference was that he was far more realistic of a thinker.

"Are you okay? You're awfully quiet tonight."

Charles shrugged, tipping his head back to rinse the shampoo from his hair. He was about to answer, when the sudden, loud rumble cut him off and sucked up the noise of the water hitting the tiles on the floor.

"What was that?" Zoe peeked her head out from the shower, as though looking out at the rest of the bathroom would give her a clue as to what had made the noise. It came again, louder that time, and the entire floor shook. Immediately Charles was reaching for his glasses, stepping out from their shared bathing experience and grabbing his clothes.

"Get dressed. Quickly. Then go down to the control center. Run if you have to." He commanded while wiggling into his pants, throwing his shoes on haphazardly and pulling on his shirt. He didn't even bother with the jacket, just ducked out the door as fast as possible.

Charles strode down the hallway, another rumble shaking the very walls of the building. He was more familiar with the sound then, unobstructed by the running water and the acoustics of the bathroom, and realized they were explosions.

Mordhaus was under attack.

He didn't have to go far before a nearly panicked Klokateer rounded the corner, stopping dead and turning to trot beside him as he passed.

"What's the situation?" He barked, exuding nothing but the utmost control and confidence, even with an unbuttoned dress shirt, dripping wet hair, and squelchy shoes.

"We've been infiltrated, sir. There's a regular war being waged on ground level in quadrant B." Another blast. A plaque fell off the wall, and Charles bent down. He had to say, having a house that was covered in useable weaponry was a blessing in disguise, as he grabbed the sword from its mount. A sense of déjà vu washed over him, but he tucked it away to reminisce about later. If there was a later. He never could be sure.

"Where are the boys?"

"Safe, my lord. They are currently in lockdown in their own rooms. We have every available Klokateer guarding them. No one gets in or out."

Charles wrinkled his nose as he buttoned his shirt, one handed, and stepped into the steel elevator. He pushed the double buttons with his index and pinky finger, mind ablaze with scenarios and reasons this would happen now, of all times. Without his jacket or tie, he realized he might as well roll up his sleeves, so he handed the sword to the Klokateer and did so quickly.

And then the elevator stopped.

The lights flickered before the backup generator kicked in. It wasn't strong enough to keep the elevator moving, so Charles and the Klokateer found themselves stuck between floors in what might have been their steel tomb.

He heard a resounding thump on top of the metal contraption, then a smaller one. Footsteps. The emergency escape hatch flew open, and a black boot became visible in the glowing red light. A figure dropped down, kicking Charles in the chin before hitting the floor. He stood his ground and looked up, enraged, and calmly wiped the blood from his lower lip. The futuristic looking creature wore a full body suit and a black ski mask with goggles over his eyes. None of its features were visible, but his physique was that of a man.

The masked man ignored Charles for a moment and snatched the sword from the Klokateer, using it to decapitate the unfortunate gear. It sliced clean through his head, right under his nose, a bloody gurgle all that remained of the scream he'd started when he'd seen his sharpened death flying toward him. Blood abuptly coated the walls, running down in thick rivulets and pooling in the corners of the tiny room.

Charles kicked the body of the gear towards his opponent, and it slammed into him, though it didn't make much of a difference. He was already slicing away at the focused manager, who ducked and maneuvered around the blows as best he could in the small space. It was like dancing, but two left feet would earn him an earnest eulogy for the second time. The man wielded the sword with little precision, and hazarded a thrust towards Charles' midsection. As the blade was jabbed with the sharp edge of the blade parallel to the floor, Charles ducked. The force of the blow drove the sword into the wall, where it wobbled, wedged heavily in the grating. Before the man had a chance to pull it free, Charles vaulted up and landed a kick to the middle of his chest. The man made a grab for the CFO's ankle, but missed, slamming into the corner of the elevator, which shook in its brave endeavor to remain suspended.

Charles' opponent threw out a punch, glancing off his shoulder. The manager grabbed the extended arm, bending it backwards and breaking it in a manner reminiscent of another attacker he had faced in the past. The man merely grunted, driving his good fist, which was reinforced with brass knuckles beneath the leather glove that covered it, into Charles' kidney. He hissed from the pain, using the broken arm still in his grasp to fling the man into the wall once again. Charles flew at him, raining punches, and struggled to maintain his footing in the blood soaked floor.

The sickening sound of steel grating against steel reached his ears, and the elevator trembled. Charles couldn't dawdle any longer. He kicked downward, connecting with his opponent's kneecap and shattering it effortlessly. The man stumbled, falling on this knees, as a crossing blow knocked three of his teeth out into his ski mask. Charles reached behind his opponent, grabbing his head, and snapped it with a few well placed pounds of pressure. The lifeless body fell face first onto the dead Klokateer. Charles wrenched the sword out of the wall and jumped as high as he could, grabbing the edge of the escape hatch.

A heel suddenly crashed down on his fingers, and he yelped. The foot it was attached to kicked him in the face repeatedly until he could haul his whole body out of the hole in the ceiling. He got to his feet just in time for a roundhouse kick to knock him back down, leaving a deep gash across his face. The woman, dressed identical to the man, struck out again. Charles rolled, almost sliding off the edge of the elevator.

On his stomach, the woman ground her foot into Charles back, sitting on him and pinning his arms beneath him. She let out a breathy chuckle, looking at the mechanical device that shot sparks as it ate through the elevator cable that kept them both hanging in the shaft. He heard the all too familiar _click_ of a switch blade opening, and saw it approaching his neck out of the corner of his eye. He pressed his chin as hard into the top of the elevator as he could, trying to protect his throat. The woman yanked on his hair, trying to pull his head up. Just as she was preparing to slice, Charles shifted and bit down on her hand as hard as he could. She screamed, surprised, and he took the opportunity to wriggle an arm free. He grabbed at the open knife that had dropped from her hand and clattered against the steel, teeth still embedded in her flesh, and stabbed backwards, jamming it through her shin. Stunned, Charles flipped her off of him, scrambling to his feet and picking her up before she could recover. Hefting her body to shoulder height, he tossed her over the edge of the elevator, where she plummeted down the shaft, screaming until a dull thump could be heard far below.

He didn't have time to catch his breath. The sparks came in greater numbers as the device clamped onto the thick cable sawed through the cable's core. Charles gasped when he heard the snap, abandoning the sword that hadn't actually proved useful, and made a jump for the nearest elevator door opening as the ground beneath his feet disappeared to mash the body below into a human paste.

He was weightless for a moment, before he crashed into the wall and scrambled for a foothold. Charles grunted, shoving the throwing knife still in his palm through the sliding doors. They were designed to open if forced from the inside, and slowly, as he exerted as much pressure as he could without falling to his own death, open they did.

After what seemed like hours of pushing, there was enough room for him to shimmy through. He pulled himself up and into the deserted hallway, listening for sounds of fighting. Pausing only for a moment, Charles oriented himself, and took off sprinting towards the kitchen.

* * *

Zoe sat tensely in the control room, where the air grew stagnant with the frightened, but steadfast breath of as many Klokateers as the space could hold. She allowed herself a small moment of relief when Charles appeared once more on the surveillance cameras after a lengthy absence, but she knew he could handle himself, and forced her mind to stay focused on Dethklok.

The monitors all displayed a different room of the house that was often used, with the large one broken up into six panels- the rooms of all five Dethklok members, plus the hallway that connected them. They paced like cornered animals, panicked nearly to death. She could sympathize. Mechanically, she commanded units of gears like pieces on a chess board, sending one unit to one square while another advanced from the rear.

The attack force was small, but fought with valor. All of them looked like human sized flies to her, with night-vision goggles and black clothes. The only thing they were missing was sets of wings, and Zoe silently thanked God that they couldn't fly. They didn't advance far on Dethklok, the Klokateers vastly outnumbering their forces and better equipped with everything from medieval weaponry to the latest sub-machine guns.

"Send Division C to back up Unit F-sixty-six." She hid the shaking in her voice. It all felt so unreal to her. For the second time, though much closer to home, she was in a reinforced room, watching the bloodshed unfold on TV screens before her, just a movie with actors that looked suspiciously familiar and played their roles well.

Her eyes flickered back to Charles, still racing throughout the twisting corridors of the house to reach whatever destination he ventured would end this.

She felt her heart rate speed up considerably as he tackled an insurgent in the kitchen, bringing a handy cleaver down on his arm before he could shoot and severing the appendage in a gory fountain of blood. Once again wielding the utensil, he drove the cleaver into the thigh of the attacker, severing a major artery. He was perfectly still in mere seconds. Charles grabbed the gun from the dead man's hand, trading up weapons, and continued on.

However, the security camera in the alternate hallway that connected Dethklok's chambers suddenly became a vision of black and white static.

"What just happened?" Zoe demanded in what was more of a shriek than anything else.

"The camera is malfunctioning, my lady." A Klokateer explained.

"Why? I need an answer, stat!"

"We…don't know, milady. It seems to have been overridden by something." The gear was too calm for her liking, even though she knew he was doing his job better than she was doing hers.

"Well, fix it!"

"We are trying, ma'am."

Zoe felt her stomach sink. Not only was Charles headed for the connecting passageway, but the members of Dethklok had abruptly become readily accessible. She waited a few precious seconds for the image to return, but it did not. Making a snap decision, the young lawyer jumped up, and without a single command left for the Klokateers, bolted out of the door.

* * *

Charles' chest heaved with air, and he flattened himself against the wall, listening. Drops of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades, and he felt not only sticky, but prickly, as though he were pressing up against a cactus. He couldn't make out anything coming from the passageway, and so he jumped out of hiding, gun poised to kill anyone in his way. Emptiness stretched before him as he walked along, his entire body rigid with the strain of the battle.

She descended on him halfway through. From where, he didn't know. All he knew was the arm around his neck was threatening to kill him, and so he grabbed it and flipped her over his shoulder. The lithe woman landed on her feet a short distance from him, heels clicking on the stony floor.

Charles raised his gun to fire, but was stunned to find it being knocked out of his hand. It skittered away from him, and he felt a sharp blow delivered to his stomach, and then another uppercut to his jaw. Both of them, another man and woman combo team, attacked him with all their might. The man mostly kept in the background, Charles noticed through his immediate defensive maneuvers. He didn't fight with his bare hands, either. The man employed a chained claw, a weapon Charles had never faced. He flicked it and it shot out like a whip, opening, its pointed edges digging into anything it came into contact with. When it retracted, the gaping claw closed, dragging its prey with it. It reminded Charles of an arcade game, but one with noxious intentions.

The woman continued to mercilessly beat him, and Charles could do little about it. Whenever he took the offensive, the claw lashed out, and a few times, it came in contact with him, ripping out entire chunks of flesh in its retreat.

Charles struggled, leaving bruises in his wake. The woman hissed through her teeth and kicked him in the hip. He fell to his knees, but reached out, grabbing her and throwing her to the ground beside him. He began to pummel her, aiming for her face, sternum, solar plexus, and liver, all while keeping wary of her kicking feet, even when the claw bit into his back with a small chuckle from the lazy assailant.

"Careful, Charles. She may have a beautiful face under that mask, but she's tough as fuckin' nails."

The CFO felt a flap of skin being torn open through his ruined shirt, but continued his assault even while screaming in agony. The woman kicked Charles in the face, somersaulting backwards and diving at him again, catching him in a headlock.

"Who are you?" He gasped, squirming. The man leaned back against the wall, whipping his chain around in the air before him.

"Me? Oh, really, Charles. You should know the answer to that question."

"I'm sorry, I don't." He groaned as the woman pushed her fingernails into the deep wound in his back, tittering wildly. The man shrugged.

"Hmm. Too bad, man. I thought you were closer to her than that."

It took Charles a moment to register this information through a haze of pain, and when he did, he couldn't help the stunned expression on his face.

"You're…you're not after Dethklok, are you?" Again, the mysterious man shrugged.

"Of course I am. Who isn't, these days? It's just a matter of…'prioritizing' how I get to them."

Charles balked at the use of the man's air quotes, which were too corny for a battlefield. The fighting temporarily ceased, although the chokehold tightened. Snickering, the man got closer to Charles.

"Oh Charles. Charles, Charles, Charles. It's a shame, man. In a perfect world, I would have been the one to size you up and kick your ass."

"The fuck are you talking about?" He could almost reach the penknife in his shirt pocket, if he tried.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but a shrill voice reached his ears just then, and his entire body language lunged towards a surprising flight response.

"Kill him." He commanded the woman, taking off into the shadows and leaving Charles alone with the woman.

He felt her hold increase, felt the air being choked out of him, and clawed at her arm. Almost. So close to the knife. He tipped his head, trying to get some air, and the woman behind him shifted, poised like a vampire descending on her helpless meal. His tongue felt huge in his mouth, and everything from the waist down was already numb. The woman noticed what he was reaching for, and plucked it out of his pocket with the hand closest to his chest, flipping it open with a painted smile.

"Uh uh uh, darling! Ve shouldn't be doing dat, now." She laughed again, obviously enjoying herself, and poised to drive the blade into the manager's spleen. He braced for impact when he perceived her arm was raised behind him.

The resounding _crack_ through the hallway was followed by silence, and then a piercing scream. Charles felt his opponent's grip lessen, and she curled in on herself on the floor, howling. Gasping and rubbing at his throat, Charles looked up.

Zoe still held the gun out at arm's length, her whole body shaking, and tears were coursing down her cheeks. Slowly she lowered the weapon, and then ran forward, embracing Charles. He held her only for a moment, and then shook her, trying to make her stop her incoherent babbling about how worried she was, and make her look him in the eye.

"What's the word on the boys?" he said through gritted teeth, blocking out the searing pain in his back. Zoe sniffed, trying to collect herself.

"They were fine when I last saw them. Shaken, but fine. And then the camera went down and—" Charles cut her off, angry.

"Why did you come here? I told you specifically to stay in the control center! Not only were you safe there, but you were in command of all of those Klokateers! Just because you worry about me does not make it okay for you to neglect the purpose of you job, Zoe."

He watched her hang her head, hearing the approaching footsteps of Klokateers, and then suddenly remembered what he was going to do prior to the entire incident, and pulled her close, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her hair before releasing her and struggling to his feet.

"Thank you. So much." He murmured, before straightening up to address the Klokateers. They rounded the corner in a hurry, stopping short when they found Charles covered in blood- much of it not his own.

"My lord, are you alright?"

"Fine." He answered with authority. "What's happening now?"

"The attackers are all dead, my lord. Except for one. A man. He jumped out a window and disappeared. We're combing the grounds for him now."

"And Dethklok?"

"They were never even seen by the attackers, my lord." Charles heaved a sigh of relief and looked down on the woman still writhing on the ground. She clutched her shoulder and shifted her glare from Zoe to Charles.

"Take her down to the, ah, interrogation chambers." He commanded, looking pointedly at the Klokateers. They nodded, and each grabbed an arm, dragging the woman, who was now screaming in German, to meet her fate. When they were gone, Zoe turned around, and gasped.

"Charles! Your back!" She looked at him in horror. Truth be told, he'd forgotten the gaping hole was there.

"It's just missing skin. I'll be fine." He gratefully took the arm she held out as he began the limp towards the main room, where the medics would be waiting

"Zoe, I need you to deal with the guys. Make sure they think it was a fan attack."

She looked at him curiously.

"You mean, it wasn't?"

Charles sighed.

"I don't think so. There's a lot that goes on here that you don't know. That Dethklok doesn't know. No one can know, understand?"

She nodded, squeezing his arm a little tighter. Charles looked over at her, debating whether or not he should attempt his next statement while dripping blood and peppered with holes. The look in her eyes- the one that never left- told him that any time would have been the right time.

"But, ah, Zoe, before you go talk to the guys, there's something I need to ask you."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

"Well, it certainly took you long enough to return, didn't it?" Edgar muttered, obviously displeased by his lack of company, even after what said company had done to him.

The captive tech-expert looked down, and then nodded at Charles' right arm, still held hostage by a black sling. It was the last of his injuries to heal, and actually stemmed from the scarring wound in his back, which causing "nerve discomfort"- though, he felt "agonizing nerve death" was a more fitting description.

"Hmm. Disgruntled fangirl hit you with her purse, Charlie?" Charles ignored him, tapping his foot.

"Alright. You know, Charles, you're no fun. I might be a little more cooperative if you showed a sense of humor once in a while." the handicapped man scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"I, ah, still have another hand, Edgar. It only takes one to kill you." Edgar studied Dethklok's manager seriously for a moment, part of him wondering just how long he could stay alive once the information gravy train ran dry. He conceded, tapping his keyboard and bringing up an image on the largest screen in the room.

Charles' good hand was tucked below his chin, his fingers thrumming against his jaw as he studied the documents Edgar conjured out of the information super highway, a magician in his own right. The CFO's brows knitted together.

"What is it?" He asked, the schematics that comprised one image rambling out across the screen and making little sense to him on their own. Edgar waved his hand, sacking Charles' question.

"Not a what. A who. A very interesting who. I was practically tickled to find out exactly _who_ this person is and how they're connected to you, Charles. It was titillating." Edgar's eyes fluttered shut, and he looked as though he had just ingested LSD.

Charles continued to stare hard at the documents, green eyes roving the monitor in search of a hint as to whom this person was so he could beat Edgar to the punch. One by one, more documents materialized. Criminal records, school transcripts, none of which were very good. Of course, as part of his game, Edgar had blurred the name of the person whose records were on display in every single instance.

The face of a young man stared back at Charles as he read. Strong jaw. Thin nose. Hair down to his shoulders. Definitely younger than himself, by quite a few years. Well built, too. An unruly jock, the high school transcript said, though in far more words than necessary.

Ah. Junior-year drop out. Detained numerous times for bullying and defacing school property. Caught with small amounts of marijuana. A life of petty crime, mostly revolving around drugs and gambling, followed suit. Suddenly the charges jumped, Charles noticed. From shoplifting, he moved to store hold-ups and grand larceny. From DUI's and joyriding to grand theft auto. His undoing appeared to be an armed bank heist that had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be serving time in a maximum security prison for the resulting murders, but had escaped. Warrants had gone out for his arrest, and everyone from the local police in the area to the FBI had been looking for him, but it was thought that he had fled the country. Charles scrutinized his face again. It looked very familiar, in an off-beat sort of way.

"Have you figured it out yet, Charles? Come on now- use that brain of yours." Edgar prompted, pleased with his work.

"No, I haven't." He answered flatly. Edgar huffed, the images changing with a single keystroke. This time, it revolved around the sensitive information Charles hated to think about, but needed to know. Again, those names he'd seen and heard so many times before jumped out at him.

"This is more recent material." Edgar announced, watching Charles' face carefully. He needed to know what would get a rise out of him and what wouldn't. Charles skimmed it, looking at the pictures, disgust written clearly on his pale features.

"How recent?"

"Last week."

"So, they are connected." He said slowly.

"Yes, that's what I'm showing you. Keep up, man."

Once more, Edgar changed the display, bringing Charles back to familiar ground.

"She's a Revengencer. Sweet woman, really. But it seems as though she has defected." Edgar mused, blowing a mocking kiss at the screen.

"Name?"

"Viktoria Metzger. She was one of Lavona's extra vessels when I knew her. Perhaps she just wanted her moment in the spotlight. Pity. She was bound to replace one of the girls if they were killed, and we both know what the turnover rate is like in that business." He offered, the frowning face of the German-born terrorist hovering in the background.

"And, ah, him?" Charles jabbed a finger at the minimized documents. Edgar acquiesced without much prodding. He didn't think his fingernails were ever going to grow back, and didn't want to lose anything else. He brought them back up on the screen, and slowly phased out the mosaic pattern obscuring the man's name.

* * *

General Crozier looked over his shoulder for the fourth time that night since arriving. He wasn't usually prone to paranoia, but he couldn't shake the discomforting feeling that he was being watched. As with the previous three times, no one was there. The military man shrugged to himself, taking a drag off the uncharacteristic cigarette he'd felt the ungodly need to light up. He waited.

His companion arrived, finally, fifteen minutes late. Crozier shot him a glare, and the man shrugged, escaping the pouring rain by ducking under the same awning that shaded the general.

"Didn't know you smoked, man."

"I don't. And it's sir."

"Whatever. You got it?"

Crozier indicated the box below him and nudged it over to the other man with his foot, in the privacy of the alley.

"Why here?" Crozier was curious. The man, kneeling by the box, looked around, almost startled by the question.

"What, the alley? I used to shoot up here as a kid. Always pretty empty."

Crozier watched the man tear open the box with vigor. He likened it to the image of a starved wolf being encaged with a flock of sheep. The man exhaled sharply when his knuckles rapped against the contents of the container, a metallic noise echoing against the buildings surrounding the pair. A whirring sound followed.

The man pulled the weapon out of the box. It was a gun- just not the likes of any gun he had ever seen. An electric blue glow emitted from between the machining lines and the various standby lights, glittering against the black matte metal. He grinned, teeth dark under a blacklight-style glow from the deadly machine.

"Is it to your specifications?" Crozier mumbled, the cigarette down to the filter. He flicked it into the rain.

"Fuck yeah. It's perfect." He seemed elated, and held the gun up to look through its attached scope.

"The rest will be shipped to the specified drop point. I trust you'll use them well?" Crozier was getting ready to shuffle out into the armored car that waited for him down the street, though he wasn't much looking forward to getting soaked.

"Of course. The bitch and her boyfriend die. I get what I want out of the deal, you get at Dethklok unobstructed, and everybody goes home happy. Well…almost everybody."

Crozier started walking, but then turned back, watching the man take aim once again at a dumpster farther back in the alley.

"What's your name?" Crozier realized he didn't know and hadn't asked anyone, not even Orlaag. The man looked over his shoulder.

"That's classified, man. I mean, _sir_. My…colleagues, they call me Rawhide. Sort of a nickname I've picked up over the years." Rawhide replied, squinting one eye. Crozier scoffed silently. Kids today. They always closed their eyes when they fired. Big mistake, he knew. He had an odd feeling that even so, Charles would have a run for his well-managed money on his hands.

"Well, if you get the opportunity to take out Dethklok, or even part of them, do it."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. You're the guy with the guns- I just shoot 'em."

Crozier was halfway down the street, shoulders hunched against the onslaught of rain, when everything around him flashed brilliant blue for a moment. He smirked to himself, sliding into the backseat of the non-descript car that carried him away.

* * *

Zoe worked her fingers through the knots in Toki's hair, who was blissfully sprawled out in the lounge chair.

"Come on, guys. Please? For me?"

"No! I'm sick of all these fuckin' fans fuckin' attacking us and shit! Why can't they just listen to the music?" Nathan roared, still pissed about the more recent attack. Zoe rolled her eyes when Toki sighed.

"Well, first off, Skwisgaar?"

"_Ja?"_

"If you ever put oatmeal in Toki's hair again while he's sleeping I'll kill you myself. It's a serious bitch to get out. Second, don't punish everyone because of the actions of a few bat-shit crazy losers."

"Why the feck naht? It's our lives at stake!" Pickles commented, frowning.

"And did any of you get hurt?"

"Well…no…" The drummer looked sheepish.

"Exactly. So at least _consider_ the idea of working up some new material, okay? I mean, who would you rather have breathing down your neck. Me? Or Charles?"

The band pondered for a moment, and then collectively made a decision.

"Charles." Came the unanimous reply. Zoe was surprised.

"…Really?"

"Yeah. You nag us. He just prods us. Like, uh…like cows." Nathan pushed his reading glasses up his nose and returned to his book.

"Uschally." Murderface added.

"Yeah."

Zoe reflected on this for a moment, rather boggled.

"So, you want me to send him out here? Because he's in a really bad mood, last I saw him, and he's likely to kick your ass with one arm in a sling and a hole in his back the size of freakin' Alaska."

"Buts isn'ts dat Teskas place biggers?"

"No, Skwis. Here's a little geography lesson for you all. Alaska is the largest state in the union."

Murderface clicked his tongue.

"Zschoe, I'm, uh, pretty schure you might be juscht a, juscht a bit confusched on that one, schweetheart. You schee, I happen to own a map. And I would have to schay Tekshas is definitely the bigger shtate."

"Why would you say that? And don't call me sweetheart ever again." She finished with Toki's hair and looked at him curiously.

Nathan suddenly turned his laptop towards her, displaying a map of the United States.

"Explain, Murderface." He ordered. The bassist licked his lips.

"Schee? That'sh Tekshas right there, and there'sh Alashka." He pointed at the screen.

"…And?" She was confused.

"What, can't you schee it? Alashka ishn't even in the country! It'sh part of freakin' Canada! And you could fit three Alashkas inside Tekshas." Murderface measured the size of the drawing of Alaska in the inset and between his fingers, and then held it up to Texas to prove a point. Those within reach of the laptop followed suit.

She resisted the urge to grind the heel of her palm into her forehead, opting instead to shake out her curls violently.

"No, no, you guys, listen. Alaska _is_ part of the United States. The country bought the land from Russia in eighteen sixty-seven. Charles would probably know much it was for- I don't remember."

"Ah, Seven-point-two million, if memory serves." A voice called out from beyond the door. Zoe snickered.

"Just waiting your chance to talk about money, hm?"

"No, actually, just, ah, passing by." His voice was fainter as he continued down the hall. The lawyer grinned and stood up, striking a pose and judgmentally pointing at the door.

"A likely story! I'll need proof. Where were you just on the night of the twenty-fourth?" She yelled, and Nathan chuckled when Charles didn't answer. Not that anyone expected him to.

"Huh. Lawyers. Who knew they had a sense of humor?"

"Buts Alaskas is ins Canadas! Why woulds Russias has it? I don't tinks you knows what you's talking about." Skwisgaar returned them to the great Alaskan debate suddenly. The redhead looked at him, as if to say, "are you really that stupid?"

"Because of Russian Americ- this is getting more detailed than I meant it to be. Nevermind. Just, suffice it to say that Alaska is the big-"

Zoe's dethphone suddenly rang and cut her off. She answered without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Do you think you'd go to heaven or hell if I killed you right now?"

"W-what? Who is this?" The tone of her voice caused the band to look up in sudden attention. The click on the other end of the line made her ear ring, and slowly, she let her arm drop from the side of her head.

"What was that all about?" Pickles raised an eyebrow at her, and she paled.

"I-um, look, just… look up what I was talking about online or something. I gotta go." She ducked out the door, hands shaking, looking to catch up with her lover, and seeking the comfort her friends could not give.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

A month had come and gone since the phone call. Months had passed between the last attack and the phone call. And still Zoe wept.

Charles could do nothing to console her. He never knew what was going to upset her more, and eventually, stopped trying to help. He held her in the night, he kissed her in the morning, but between those times, he kept his distance emotionally, not to protect himself, but to try to keep her from being reminded of the awful truth.

Dethklok, on the other hand, was not so intelligent as to stop talking about the situation- or, at least, what they knew about it. They would slip, forget they were supposed to be quiet about it, and Zoe would softly excuse herself from their presence before silently erupting into another wave of wet eyes and hitching breath. They always felt bad after, but not enough to prevent them from doing it again. This was placing them in Charles' poor favor, and he rewarded their ignorance with sharp glares and sharper reprimands.

Sometimes, it was nobody's fault. Zoe would be going about her business, and it would seem, for that moment, as though things were back to normal. Sparring, working, hanging out… and then something would trigger another heartwrenching episode, out of the blue.

Charles was torn. He couldn't hold Dethklok accountable for the things they didn't even understand or know about. He couldn't tell them, either. But he couldn't go on avoiding his lover, and he couldn't go on watching her crumble, either.

Most nights, he ended up standing in the window, just staring, as if he had fallen into Medusa's dark spell and had been turned to stone. Or he would be found scanning the various sonars, scanners, satellites and other equipment in the control center. He ate very little and said even less. His face seemed like it would remain forever in the same deeply etched frown it had been in for weeks. He was stretched too thin, searching and waiting not only for his own rivals, but for hers, as well.

Still, she cried. Her tears grew stagnant in the eyes of those around her, and she drifted from everyone and everything she loved, lost in a world of confusion and betrayal. She felt herself sinking deeper into her crushing depression, but was powerless to pull herself out of it.

Charles crawled over to her one night, as she sat on the edge of their bed, shivering and trying to brush out her hair. He took the brush from her and began to work out the tangles as easily as he could, and when he was finished, he moved her hair over her shoulder and left gentle, playful kisses up and down the back of her neck. It broke his heart to have to watch her suffer, and it enraged him to know there was nothing he could do about it.

"How could he? How could he do this to me? To all of us?" She whimpered, twisting to press her face into Charles' collarbone. He stroked her hair, the cool night air biting into his bare skin and producing goosebumps along his spine.

"Don't, ah…don't question it." He tried, but she cringed.

"How am I supposed to do that? You tell me how I can ignore the fact that he's…he's…" She broke again, and Charles gave up. He pulled her into his lap with strong arms.

"C'mere. Shh. It'll be alright. I promise." It was his best attempt yet at comforting someone like a normal human being, and he was quite proud of himself. It seemed to help a little.

"How can you promise that, Charlie?" Her voice was as small and weak as her ability to cope with a situation no amount of training could ever have prepared her for.

"Because I know you. And I, ah, know you can get through this. And I'll be right there with you, every step of the way." Finally, after almost a year, he was growing accustomed to speaking his feelings.

Soon after, her tears dried up for the evening, but he didn't let her go. He just cradled her until she fell asleep. Even after she slipped into restless dreams, he kept her pressed against his body, and stayed awake the entire night, just to watch her breathe.

The change was gradual. Zoe didn't step away from her humanity this time, but rather, became ten times more sensitive to it. Her basketcase demeanor of the last few grueling weeks transformed into something he never would have imagined. He spent all his free time with her, in the training room, and found he was getting very intimate with the mats on the floor when she was in any mood less favorable than happy.

Fencing. Shooting. Hand to hand. Strategic planning. Methods of warfare. Weaponry training. Stamina training. It was as though she were in training to become the next She-Hulk or Lara Croft. Charles couldn't believe it. His sweet and- relatively- innocent girlfriend was now a weapon of mass destruction in her own right. Not for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that he should have spared her, should have sent her away the minute she came to his office all those months ago.

He pondered this one afternoon before addressing the newest Klokateers. Why _had_ he taken her at her word? It hadn't been like him at all. She was untrained, a woman, and an outsider. He hadn't even bothered to find out if Dethklok was her favorite band or not (Turned out, to that day, they weren't, though he was the only one who knew that. They were squeaked out by a band Charles would not have expected- Foreigner. How a woman like Zoe could get mixed up in classic rock _and_ death metal and not be a relative of Pickles', he'd never know). He had not immediately blinded by the beauty other men rarely noticed, and was not impressed by her college education or her fluent speech.

He made an educated guess in the absence of any real answers that it had been her can-do attitude. It was deep and focused, much like his own. He had trained her to see if he could create a mirror image of himself, and instead found himself becoming a completely voluntary slave to her love, something he'd thought (and hoped, at one time) would forever elude him.

He watched Zoe, who was sitting at his desk one afternoon while he had been in a video conference meeting with Zimbabwe, and realized she had become entirely capable of running his empire. She could become a full-on manager, either with Dethklok (working beside him was very different from trying to steal his job away, which a certain post humously labeled "pedophile" had discovered in the moments before his brutal end) or another band, and still she carried on as a second-rate assistant. The fact that this was a paid internship hadn't even come up since the day he had hired her. She never spoke of her life before Dethklok to anyone but him, and that was only recently. She kept in contact with her outside friends when she could, just like he did, but she didn't mourn over strained and broken friendships. She never spoke of Crystal Mountain or Roy Cornickelson, never mentioned how they heckled her for information on Dethklok's latest financial tirades, and sure as hell never gave into them. Every so often, he gave her the reassurance that if she left the band's employment he would support her, but each time she pressed a finger to his lips and changed the subject. It seemed that they had sucked her in as deeply as he, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Everyone paid for their proximity to the band with something crucial. He had paid three times, with his body, his heart, and his life. Only one of those was on permanent loan, however, and it worried him to think about what the next step could be, after he'd already given everything. Or what her payment would end up being. He knew it was inevitable. Somehow, she knew it, too.

He'd found her on the nose of the dragonspire one evening, looking up at the stars with a dreamy expression. It was chilly, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Charlie?" She was quiet, not wanting to break the peace out there, away from the hustle and bustle of their corporate world.

"Hm?" Slowly, he sank down beside her. Her head dropped from the sky, and her fixation turned on him with a steady center.

"Will you still love me after it happens?"

He was bewildered.

"Ah…after what happens, sweetie?" Her hand found his and covered it, the only contact they made.

"You know. Jean-Pierre's all mangled. Dick's missing his eyes. You…" she bit her lip.

"Go on." He prodded, a little twist forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Well…you're all scarred up. And…you _died_, Charles. You've told me a thousand times how and what you did to survive, and I still can't imagine being able to hang on through all of that, if it were me and not you."

"If I had known that you were going to be in my future, it, ah, probably would've been a lot easier." He tried to be sappy, to lighten the mood, but she remained serious, drawing her knees into her chest.

"I've been here a long time, now, when it comes to employment-tenure around here."

"That's true."

"And, so…when _it_ happens, Charles…if it's physical and I survive…and I don't look or feel like me anymore…can you promise that you'll still love me?"

He expected to look over and see her bawling her eyes out, because if he felt rubbed raw by that question, she must feel worse, but, to his astonishment, her cheeks were completely dry.

And they had stayed that way after he was able to answer positively, without hesitation.

And yet one single-sentence phone call had reduced her to sobbing all the time and wanting to resort to violence. He was proud of her abilities, but knew they came from days of doing nothing in her spare time but practicing. Her strength increased. Her skills increased. But her joy and love of life decreased. He wished he'd never told her what he knew when she caught up with him in the hall that day.

She had come to him, not so much tearful as frightened, and took him aside, speaking in whispered tones about the death threat. He sighed, told her not to worry, that it was probably some stupid prank call, and said they were going out that night. He wasn't trying to butter her up, but he knew the news would crush her, and he wanted her to at least have a good time to remember before he had to ruin her whole world.

Excited, she'd gotten everything in place to leave, and slipped into the evening gown she'd been on the fence about purchasing during her last shopping spree. The rest of the time after Charles had dressed, he spent debating how to go about sharing the information Edgar had provided him with (because it would prove dangerous one way or another, so she might as well know all of it), while she applied makeup, did her hair, and found the perfect matching shoes.

Charles matched his bowtie to the color of her dress, and the dashing pair left Mordhaus as though the proud parents of five man-children were escaping for a moment of privacy. Charles left a Klokateer with specific instructions on what to do for almost any situation, told his new elite soldiers to be on absolute red alert and patrol the complex, and then told the boys that if they gave their _babysitters_ trouble, there would be serious consequences. They blew him off, snorting and cunningly planning all the things they would do in Charles' absence that he wouldn't normally let them get away with, such as abusing the help beyond compensation and wracking up take out charges (he could visualize a million pizzas being delivered to the loading dock, and twitched). But then Zoe stepped forward, dress swishing around her heels and catching the attention of every man in the room.

"Seriously guys. Screw up, and you'll be seeing the other end of something you thought was permanently attached." They gulped, and she raised an eyebrow at them, enforcing her point. Charles chuckled, looking back at his charges, and quoted.

"Hell, ah, hath no fury like a woman scored, gentlemen. G'night." They departed, taking Charles' Jaguar. It was faster than the limo if they needed to get back to Mordhaus in a hurry. Plus, Charles needed the action to focus on while he planned how he would approach explaining the situation to Zoe. It was soothing.

He put up a good front at the restaurant, as did she. They acted as though they were a normal couple, the grand show of chatting about work, family, memories, and the future well produced; the magic of it being that they began to believe it, themselves. The marinara was just right, the salad was fresh, and the breadsticks were fluffy and crispy, all at the same time. Jean-Pierre would have been proud. It was almost like being normal. Almost. Later, in the restaurant when the live band began to play, Charles surprised Zoe with his dancing skills, but then again, she supposed he _was_ the one who was good at practically everything.

And after dinner and dancing, they went for a nighttime walk. They were silent, just drinking in the Saturday night scene, which was teeming with all walks of life crowding the sidewalks and trying to stake their place at various clubs, and knowing full well they could have been a part of it at the same time they couldn't. It wasn't the place for a dead man and a woman with a price on her head, and never would be.

It was well after midnight when Charles began the drive back to Mordhaus. The moon shone brightly in a deep blue sky. The highway stretched before them both, seemingly endless in both directions, but either way, it only led back to a place of happiness and hate.

Charles felt a hand descend on his, which was resting on the console shifter. He glanced over at the passenger's seat. Zoe's deep red lips turned up into a soft smile, and she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you." She murmured, pulling back and settling herself comfortably against the gray leather seat. He looked down, ashamed that he had led her on and had to tell her the truth.

He could have lied, could have let her forget all about what was happening, but it would come to her attention soon enough. When they were alone at the house, they checked up on the boys, who were all still very much awake and had forced the attending Klokateer into a game of Scrabble with few rules and fewer capable spellers. And then Charles took her into the conference room, and locked the door.

She looked confused. And he couldn't help but hate what he was about to do.

"Zoe, we have to talk. About the, ah…the phone call. And about the attack." He sat down beside her, and she sighed, taking the twist out of her hair.

"I knew it was coming. Okay. What's the deal?" She looked ready. He was still nervous, though, and imagined how he would feel if he were in her shoes. He already felt bad enough.

"The woman that you, ah, shot. Her name is Viktoria Metzger. She's with a group called the, ah, Revengencers."

"Alright."

"They're a terrorist organization against Dethklok."

"Ooo-kay? I'm not exactly shocked, here." She couldn't see why he was beating around the bush.

"We still have her in our, ah, custody. But the man that was with her escaped. I believe he's the one who sent you that phone call. I also believe he's, ah, the one in charge of all of this."

"Great! So you know who he is? Can't we bring charges up on him or something?" Charles swallowed, and looked her dead in the eye. She grew quiet, serious, sensing the gravity of the entire situation.

"Zoe. The man calls himself Rawhide." He watched her eyes. They widened slightly, and a hand flew to her mouth. Her chin quivered, and she looked like she was fighting the urge to slap him. She shook her head vigorously.

"No. It's not true. You're lying. Or, this is a joke. A really stupid joke. He'd never—"

Charles cut her off, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a neatly folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he slid it towards her on the table. She could only look at it for a moment. It was a print out of a photograph, one from her life prior. In it, a tall man stood next to a shorter women. Both were smiling. He had his arm around the girl's shoulders, and they looked content. Both sported the same auburn hair.

"I'm not lying. The man who tried to kill me and threatened you… is your brother."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Rawhide banged a pack of Marlboro cigarettes against his palm before pulling one out and conjuring his Zippo lighter from his pocket. He kicked back in the chair, crossing his denim-clad legs one over the other, the heel of one work boot clomping against the table.

He had never been a man with a plan. He never had the highest grades, never had the perfect scores in anything. That was his sister's forte. But this time, his negligence to see into the future was paying off. He didn't care where tomorrow went as long as the present was livable. But there was someone standing in the way of his happiness. A group of someones, really, but there was one that stood out as the ringleader.

His name was Charles Foster Ofdensen, and Rawhide wanted him dead.

He coughed out a smoke ring, and it floated to the shabby ceiling. Cracking his knuckles for emphasis, he looked over his shoulder.

"Distribute 'em."

The man did as he was told, hunched over and struggling to lift each gun out of its box. The other people in the room looked at the weapons with a mixture of fascination and joy. They lifted the guns, power surging through their instruments of pain. The room was suddenly filled with blue light.

"That Crozier motherfucker really came through, eh?" The old man chuckled, then wheezed, lungs feeble with emphysema. Rawhide nodded.

"Yeah. Crazy old shit, though." He stood up, his desert eagle warm in his palm.

"Now. We have a mission, people! What is it?" He smirked as his rag-tag band of soldiers answered in unison to his gravely call.

"To kill Dethklok."

"Very good. Why, fuckers?" He snarled, excitement coursing through his veins, and took another drag off his cigarette.

"We _we_ don't _don't_ need _need_ a _a_ reason _reason._" Rawhide stopped in mid-puff, brown eyes wildly scanning the crowd. One of the men in the second row looked nervous.

Without blinking, he leveled the pistol and placed a bullet clean through the man's forehead. After all, he _had _been out of time with the rest of the group.

The people around the man who were covered in blood didn't even flinch. The woman behind the dead man simply stepped back, so as not to get dead-body on her shoe prematurely.

"You're right. You don't. And I ain't tellin' ya fuckers why ya don't. But you sure as shit better do a good fuckin' job of offin' em, or I'll kill ya'll myself. Just like Larry, there. Questions?"

A woman in the front row coughed. Without warning, Rawhide shot forward, pistol whipping her brutally.

"You think this is funny, bitch? Huh? Do any of you motherfuckers think this is _funny_?" He screamed, spittle spurting from the lips that were curled back over his teeth. Rawhide grabbed the woman around the middle and dragged her back to the middle of the room.

"This is not a game, ya pieces of shit! This is real life. If there's anyone here, any cock-sucking fuckin' loser that doesn't wanna play along, say so now so I can shoot you in your fuckin' face!" He raged, and kicked the woman's knees out from under her. Everyone was silent. He grabbed a handful of the woman's hair. She knew better than to claw at his hands or make a sound.

"Now. What the fuck is our mission?" He rallied.

"To kill Dethklok." Came the perfect response.

"Why are we gonna kill Dethklok?"

"We don't need a reason."

"And how are we gonna kill Dethklok?" Everyone stomped a foot and raised their gun in the air.

"By any means necessary." Rawhide smirked, the barrel of the gun in his hand pressed against the woman's temple. Her head tipped sideways, and for the first time, her face screwed up into a pleading look. Rawhide saw this, reaching down to console her. He gently cupped her cheek and made a shushing noise.

"And…well, it should look something like this." With no fanfare, he pulled the trigger, and she slumped sideways into a pool of her own gray matter.

"Yes sir." Rawhide's chest heaved. The power trip had gotten him very anxious, in more ways than one. He turned away, gripping the edges of the ancient poker table.

"Good. Dismissed. And take them the fuck outta here." He gestured at the two bodies with the gun. Everyone filed out, four people dragging the night's fatalities up the stairs and out the door.

Alone again, Rawhide breathed heavily. The smell of blood and nicotine intoxicated him. He looked up at the picture General Crozier had provided him with in the file that he had taped to the wall, and snarled at it, hurling a half empty beer bottle against the earth and stone. It shattered into a blissful shower of liquor and glass, staining the picture so that it looked like the people in the photograph were stained with blood. He grinned, running a hand through his hair.

Taking aim at the photograph, Rawhide expertly blew out the faces of the photo's occupants. All that remained was the pixilated background, some sort of farmstand out in the boondocks. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes, he stamped on the one that had fallen to the floor in his anger, and lit up another. He'd been so focused that he'd neglected to smoke enough to keep him within his definition of sane, and the lack of nicotine was taking its agonizing toll on him.

His soldiers didn't need a reason. He did. And he had one. In the end, Rawhide always got what he wanted. It was just a given fact. When he'd needed the answers to a test, he stole them from his sister or her friends if she wouldn't give them over peaceably. When he was hard up for cash, his parent's had their wallet pilfered if they didn't open it themselves. But those times were fading away, and, oddly enough, their preservation was only part of the reason for his actions. He would kill Dethklok because it would mean something. It would make him something. He would be world famous. He could take over their money and never have to worry about anything ever again. Rawhide knew that their deaths would cause memorial sales to keep him happy until the day he died. And he had one man to thank for this genius idea. The very same man that had almost killed him by financially sheltering and physically protecting his personal gravy train.

That man was Charles Foster Ofdensen. And Rawhide wanted him dead.

* * *

Charles stood in the TV room, waiting for the band to say something. Zoe looked up at him, sprawled across the couch. Her head was against Nathan's leg, and her legs stretched over the laps of Skwisgaar and Toki. She was peaceful, and didn't want to move, but she figured he was going to make her do so soon enough.

"So, ah…you really want to spend your money on this?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure? I mean, what were you guys, ah, doing there in the first place?" Nathan snorted.

"Looking for you." Charles shifted, looking to his partner for help, but she turned her attention back to the television with a devious smile.

"Yeah, we's hads an emergenskies!" Toki piped up.

"Yeah? What was that? Seems like you're okay now."

"It was a math…mathmergency!"

Skwisgaar giggled.

"Huh. Mathsmergunskies. Dat's a good ones."

"What the heck is a mathmergency?" Zoe queried lackadaisically. Pickles shrugged.

"It's when we need someone, y'know, smarter den us to tell us somethin' about numbers."

"What did you need to know?"

"We needed to know if there was such a thing as an imaginary number. Like…what the fuck is that shit?"

Charles blinked.

"Why did you need to know that at three in the morning?"

"Hey, numbers are _important_." The frontman bellowed. Silence followed for a moment.

"Granted, Nathan, but you could have just called. It was very early in the, ah, morning. I do sleep, you know." It was Skwisgaar's turn to snort and roll his eyes.

"_Ja_, maybes, but yous sure does its loudly." Charles' cheeks pinked slightly, and Zoe giggled.

"Yeah, you've got a real good snore goin' on, dood. Sounds real good. Real good." Pickles winked at Zoe, who caught his gaze.

"I, ah, don't know what you're talking about." Charles chewed on the inside of his inner bottom lip.

"Oh, well, lemme demonstrate for you. It sounds somethin' like this." Pickles cleared his throat, then let out the most ridiculous moan he could muster. Nathan, in response, replied with a soft mewl. Pickles retorted with another grunt of ecstasy, and the wordless banter continued on until both parties were screaming in unison. Murderface laughed so hard he felt beer bubble through his sinus cavity again. Charles shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying not to get angry or very embarrassed.

"Alright. I get it. But that doesn't mean you can, ah, kick me and Zoe out of our room and have it, ah, soundproofed." Zoe smirked.

"Yeah, boys. Just think of what would happen if you moved us into one of the guest rooms temporarily. Not only would we be a little closer to you guys at night, but we'd have to move all of our favorite toys. There's the whip, and the ball gag, and the leather dominatrix outfit, and the ass-hook, and—"

She was interrupted when all three of the band members that had been supporting her body made a noise of disgust and rolled her onto the floor with a quick shove. She squeaked, and Charles, whose face matched his tie, automatically reached out a hand to help her up.

"Okay, okay. We won't soundproof, woman! Gahd! Did we really needa know that?" Pickles groaned, hiding his discomfort in his alcohol while he expertly jockeyed the foot petals that controlled the television. She brushed herself off and clasped her hands, the picture of devilish innocence.

"Yes."

"So, and I mean, this is gonna sound really, really gay, but I, uh… I just have to ask. Does _he_ use that stuff on you, or do _you _use it on him?" Nathan shot a look at his manager, who just raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to continue.

"Oh, come on now, Nathan. Either way, that's mean." Still, Zoe couldn't help but smile, and when Charles looked away, she pointed at herself with a flourish. The band broke down into snickers, and Charles glared at them.

"Alright boys. But, ah, you know, you should really be working on that record. I mean, right now, working on that record. Fans are, ah, getting restless, causing riots, threatening your lives and the lives of millions…you know. The, ah…the usual."

Murderface crossed his arms.

"Oh yeah? Well why don't you get on your kneesch and beg?"

If Charles had ever looked shocked and enraged and had ever shown such a face to the band, it was at that moment. Zoe saw the monster she had created quickly growing, and began to shove Charles out the door.

"Seriously, boys. Work on the record. I'll check in on you later. Maybe we can get some pizza or something." She offered while clamping a hand over Charles' mouth, and then pushed him out into the hallway with all her strength. The door closed behind her, and the CFO caught his breath. Straightening up, he looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You hate me, don't you?" Zoe cooed at him congenially.

"Not at all, darling!"

"Then why do you keep doing this to me? It's not like I'm someone they, ah, need to respect or anything. Now they're going to believe you." Charles frowned deeply and shied away from his woman as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Listen. I don't hate you…I just think you're really cute when you're miserable."

The manager scowled and sighed, beginning the trek back to his office.

"Besides, hun, it's not like they're going to remember by dinnertime, anyway."

"No. You're right. They're more likely to announce it to the world so everyone else remembers, and then when they remember that they're supposed to remember, they'll break into our room and search everything looking for these sex toys that don't exist!"

He stopped mid stride and looked over at her.

"Wait… wait. Ah…did you just list all the things you actually _want_?"

The redhead smiled without a word, and Charles swallowed, wondering what else he was going to have to endure from her, if she had things her way.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

No one was ready when it happened. They could have been as prepared as they wanted, but no one would be ready.

Charles had been far more mobile from his office than usual, spending a great deal of time in the control center or with the insufferably unsociable scientists that were building his latest Mordhaus defense mechanisms. Then again, he figured it was a lost cause, in the wake of the last major disaster he'd encountered. Still, it didn't hurt to have a plan A as well as plans B through Z.

Zoe had taken over much of Charles' financial work, being as studious and careful as she could with all that was on her mind. She pushed it to the back of her thoughts as often as she could, pretending that Charles had made an awful mistake, but she knew in her heart that it was him. She also had an inkling of why he was going to these lengths, but kept it to herself.

She had also taken the liberty of shepherding the band back into the studio, finally. Unfortunately, she could lead a horse to water, but she couldn't make them drink. They goofed off and ate junk food more often than not, mostly trashing the recording rooms and being antagonistic towards Dick Knubbler.

Zoe and Dick had formed an unholy alliance over the boys. He would persuade them, she would threaten them, and eventually, Nathan began to present lyrics while Skwisgaar worked on melodies. The producer and the assistant manager fretted over the unfinished state of half of the things Dethklok would present, but simply encouraged them, which seemed to be their best tactic for seeing at least part of those things to completion.

Time ran on and flowed into itself. Zoe and Charles ran themselves ragged with work, defenses, and training. Every few days, Mordhaus' power generators were tested, the new and improved shields went up, and Charles drank everything in with a wise eye. He knew better, now. Never trust a machine to do a man's work. It got ugly every time. Still, they found time for each other when they could. Especially on Zoe's twenty-seventh birthday.

Charles had taken her aside, into his office, and presented her with a cupcake that had a birthday candle burning away in it. Zoe's eyes lit up, and he took a special kind of satisfaction in diverting her attention away from all the heinous things happening around them. Charles wrapped his arms around her from behind, nipping her earlobe before he murmured "make a wish."

Zoe closed her eyes with a smile, and after a moment, blew out the candle before any of the blue wax could touch the delicious dessert. Charles watched her remove the candle, and then lick at the delicate pink frosting before biting into the chocolate indulgence. She offered a bite to Charles over her shoulder, and he gladly took it, needing a sugary pick-me-up before continuing on his way to the lab.

While Zoe devoured the cupcake, Charles brought out a long box, hiding it behind his back. She looked up at him questioningly, sucking the frosting off her ball of her thumb, and he grinned, handing her the package.

She took it gently, the silver ribbon glimmering against the black box. With trembling hands, Zoe untied the knot and lifted the hinged box cover. She gasped, eyes watering, and looked up at Charles.

"It's beautiful." She whispered, choked up. She placed the box down on the desk and lifted the intricately designed fencing sword out of its case.

"Thought you, ah, might like it, with all your, ah, newfound interest in the sport." Wary of the sword in her hand, Zoe embraced Charles, and kissed him passionately. Breaking away, she continued to examine the weapon.

"Épée, right?"

"Yeah." He watched her take in the details on the hilt. It was leather bound, with a silver pommel that bore a large ruby in the very end. However, it did not possess a bell-guard, and she looked more closely at the silver plated steel that swirled around the handle. They met at one side, so as to allow for proper grip, and Zoe felt her jaw drop again.

"They're snakes!" The eyes of the snakes were inset, one with rubies and the other with shimmering black onyx. They were delicately detailed with scales, and their tiny fangs were coated with red enamel.

"Serpents, really. They look beautiful and, ah, harmless from a distance, but they're fast, cunning, and extremely poisonous." Charles quipped, and Zoe bounced on the heels of her shoes, excited.

"There's one more thing you need to see." He said, and gingerly took the blade from her, holding it up so that one of its edges caught the light. The engraving up the forte suddenly became visible.

"_Attack with all fire of our love, strike with all the passion in your heart- Charles"_

Zoe was overcome. She set the épée down, closed the case and snapped it shut, and then fervently romanced her lover, who simply smiled, happy to have a reason not to descend back into his tedious workday.

* * *

Viktoria sat in her cell, humming to herself. It wouldn't be long then. She had used her nails to tally the passing days in the dirt, and the time was almost upon them.

She had been patiently waiting for months, keeping herself strong by doing as many calisthenics as she dared on her meager slop rations. Above her in Mordhaus, she could almost _feel_ them walking around. It raised the fine hairs on her arm. Her anticipation was mounting, making her mouth water and her senses jump to attention.

The man had come. That Charles. He had fallen prey to exactly what had been planned. Rawhide was her favorite alliance ever- he was insane, of course, but, somehow, he knew exactly what he was doing. Knew that Charles would rather take her prisoner and attempt to interrogate her than kill her. He had done exactly that, and she fed him the pre-rehearsed information. She knew he didn't believe a word of it, but he kept her alive, because he knew she knew_ something_.

But Viktoria was not without her amusement in the cell. She had been listening. Her days passed in silence within the dripping, cold walls, and she sat as still as possible. More often than not, the guards checked to see if she was dead. No one knew about the implants. It had been an under the table job. Some man that hid his face under a metal mask had put them in- as painfully as possible- in between torturing people. She had balked, hadn't wanted it done, but Rawhide had insisted that it was all part of the plan.

And so it had been a genius move. She heard everything that went on in Mordhaus. Perhaps the best part was the fact that she didn't _have_ to hear everything. The implants had samples of the most important voices- if she only wanted to hear one person, she could. If she wanted to hear conversations, that was simple too. And when she needed to hear everyone else that existed in the complex, she only had to set the implants to a specific degree of sensitivity and angle her head in just the right direction. It had taken some getting used to, but it was worth it. She knew just about anything Rawhide would ever need to know, and in her spare time, when the chatter was at a dull rumble, she was listening to Nathan Explosion, and her entire body ended up alight with fire and the electric insatiable lust for flesh. Above her, the world teemed with the life that would soon be snuffed out, and she would have her day in the sun, with the children of the most powerful, perfect man in the world growing into capable leaders.

Yes, above her, there would be chaos and death. And it would come from below.

* * *

Night fell. Beyond the well-patrolled boundaries of Mordhaus, a group of people, clad in black, made their way to the entrance point their leader had staked out. His fur-lined cloak swirled around him as he progressed through the night, feet barely making a noise on the fallen branches or dry brush below. He crouched low when they passed an opening that could be seen, and one by one, led his troops across, checking with his binoculars to ensure no one detected them.

They continued on, far beyond the multi-lane highway, and skittered down the rocks to the sewage river below. Rawhide dropped his cloak on the sand- it would only weigh him down in the water. He had no choice but to keep his boots on, but he had already practiced swimming with them. The others would remove their shoes, and up the river, another unit was ferrying across their equipment, guns and all. Perhaps for some vagrants, the river was Mordhaus' best nearly-natural defense, but he wasn't afraid of getting a little dirty, and neither were the men and women who followed him. They descended into the water, the moon bright above them, and like turtles that rarely surfaced, began to cross the channel.

Rawhide came up to gauge their progress. Almost there. And then the real fun would begin. He gauged the time they had to enter before they were noticed, and grinned. There was no hurry.

Charles would never know what hit him.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Charles opened his eyes and sat straight up in bed. He couldn't explain it. Could barely grasp onto it in his startled haze. Something had woken him up from the inside out. Something felt wrong.

In the dim light from the window, he could see Zoe peacefully slumbering. He slid out of bed and silently got dressed. Stifling a yawn, Charles hazarded a glance at the alarm clock- 4:47 AM. Too early for him to even consider being awake and alive. Yet still he shuffled through the motions of tying his tie and sliding into his shoes, motions that he had numbly repeated for years. He grabbed his dethphone, slipped it into his pocket, and debated whether or not to take a weapon along with him, simply because he didn't know what it was that had called him out on such short notice. For all he was aware of, someone could've stuck a fork into the microwave by accident. Again.

"Babe?" A tiny voice called out from behind him. Zoe rolled over, rubbing her eyes.

"Nnn…It's five in the morning. What's up? Did somethin' happen to the boys?" Her alertness quickly returned to her, and she sat up. Charles finished buttoning his jacket, and walked over to her side of the bed, smoothing her hair and letting his fingers caress her cheek. She looked surprised.

"No. I just…couldn't sleep I guess. Something just, ah…something just doesn't feel right. I'm just going to do a quick check on the guys and the house, and then I'll be back."

Zoe covered his large hand, still against her cheek, with hers, and Charles leaned down. The feeling of an off-kilter world was strong upon him once again, and he felt cold and perpetually on fire, all at the same time.

Her long lashes touched and tickled his face when he pressed his lips against hers. Their breathing, just a second out of sync, came heavily through their noses. He kissed Zoe as though he would never have the opportunity to do it again, and stayed like that for as long as he could, pressing her back into the pillows and touching her in all the ways he hoped he would be able to for years to come. His blood roared in his ears, and another wave of wrongness crashed into him, causing him to feel slightly sick.

Charles pulled back only slightly, his forehead pressing against hers. She ran her finger along the shiny, well hidden scar across his left cheekbone, sliding it over the earpiece of his glasses. He searched her eyes for what she was feeling, cupping her face in his hands. She looked nervous, but brave. She believed in him, knew that something bad was going to happen, but felt in her heart that it would be okay. He would save Dethklok, and he would save her. Even under the cover of the fading darkness, she could see the determination on his pale visage.

"I love you. So much." He murmured, feeling a wave of panic rising in the pit of his stomach. Something was driving him to madness from within. That was not how he had meant to say that. It was too clunky, too acknowledging of plunging headfirst into a nightmare without a light to see by. The sensation that if he left, that if he walked out the door he might never return, overpowered him. He wanted to ignore it, slip back into bed and pretend like nothing could ever hurt them because they were invincible together in their heavy metal fortress surrounded by fighters and soldiers and natural disasters, but he had never been the kind to believe in fantasy. He hid these fears well, however, pushing them down until he could almost forget they were there.

"I know. I love you too, Charlie." She sounded like a small child, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He rubbed her back soothingly, praying for her to not have noticed his anxiety, his disbelief in his ability to fend for her and the band simultaneously. The choice was coming, and he knew, just by divine right, what he would end up choosing.

On to business, however. He was certain the band was going to be in dire need of him shortly. Besides, he had the utmost confidence that Zoe could now take care of herself if the worst occurred.

"Be careful, okay?" She whispered against his ear, and he nodded, breaking the contact he longed for, pulling back from the woman he loved, and turning away, to meet the job that he knew and felt in every fiber of his being was his, and only his, to ever hold. And he wouldn't have had it any other way.

"I will. And …keep Caitir close to you." He said, gesturing to the case that held her fencing sword, which was laying on the bureau. Zoe swallowed and nodded, and then Charles was gone, the door shutting in his wake with a thump too loud to be normal and a squeal that hadn't been present the evening before.

If the very structure was tensed for something, then only fire and brimstone awaited them.

* * *

Viktoria flexed her left arm. It didn't work as well as it used to, but she wasn't dead. She had been extremely careful to keep the wound covered, and never let it touch the walls or floor of her cell, lest she be hopelessly infected with every disease and virus known to man. She was lucky the bullet had gone straight through.

The vessel paced, her legs stiff from sitting against the wall for months on end. Cocking her head, she listened again. She could hear them below. All of them. Breathing when they could. Speaking in muted whispers when it was absolutely necessary. Moving against the rocky earth. And above, she could hear Charles moving about, his impeccable senses acutely aware that something was going to happen, but unaware of what it was.

It didn't matter whether he knew or not. There was nothing he could do to stop it now. He would die, his girlfriend would die, and Dethklok would die. But not before she got what she came for specifically. Something Lavona had tried to cheat her out of.

And that was Nathan Explosion.

* * *

Rawhide reached the cliff face just as the sun was rising in the sky. They had made incredible time. Getting his bearings, he poked his head up, searching for the ferry craft. It was there in the distance, at the entry point, tethered to the stake he'd embedded in the wall two nights before, and completely empty. He motioned silently to his troops to follow him, and he began to creep along the rock face towards the raft, the only portion of him visible above the murky waterline being upward of his nose.

They all fell into a line. Some stayed below the surface as often as they could. Others chose to copy their leader. The group was about one hundred strong just then, but it was only one unit. One other unit was already inside, and the remaining unit would follow when enough time had passed.

He reached the entrance, untethered the ferry so it floated off in the current, and ducked down into the water. Rawhide kicked until he came to the hole, and moved the rock covering it aside. Propelling himself into the ample gap, he simply began to swim, until he reached the cave he'd pained himself and many others to create. The hole opened into a shallow pool, and he surface, throwing his head back to whip his waterlogged hair out of his eyes. The crew that was already inside saluted to their leader, and handed him his trusty pistol and the new gun that General Crozier had provided.

Like zombies from the grave, other beings began to shuffle out of the hole and into the darkness of the cave. It was lit only by two lanterns he had brought previously to the site, and they cast eerie shadows over the faces of anyone beyond their immediate circle of light.

Soon, almost all three hundred people were assembled in the cave. It was cramped, and they smelled of sewage, but they didn't seem to care. Rawhide cleared his throat, wishing he had been able to waterproof his pack of cigarettes in time for the excursion.

"You are here today, ya motherfuckers, to fight until ya die. We're gonna take out Dethklok, and none of you stop until they're one-hundred percent dead. Ya got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Good! Very good. Man, I don't know about you fuckers, but I'm really jazzed about this. We're gonna have a good time. Real good time. Remember, there's no I in team, but there's meat if you rearrange the letters, and you'll be the dead and ground up version of that if any of ya fuck this shit up. Do any of you wanna be the chuck I'm having for dinner?" Rawhide unsheathed his hunting knife and picked at his teeth with it, curling his lips into a feral snarl.

"No sir."

"Good. Then grab a gun and follow me." Hefting the gun in one hand and a lantern in another, Rawhide trotted off into the sloping tunnel that grew smaller and smaller as it progressed. His lemmings followed him, the ferry-unit also toting a good-sized black box with them at the rear of the procession.

He couldn't help but smirk as he ascended. This was the only part of the plan he'd bothered to work out. His troops had their general orders, but on the surface, it would be pure chaos. Exactly what would be Charles Ofdensen's undoing. There was no set method of attack, no backup versions of what to do, and certainly no instructions to retreat. There was just a group of unified people who despised Dethklok for their own various reasons, or, at least, wanted to make a buck if they survived.

Rawhide chuckled. His masterpiece free-for-all was playing out, and he was the only one who knew what happened when the curtain rose on the second act.

* * *

Selatcia sat back in his chair, doing less thinking and more seeing.

"_They are strong."_

"_Yes, master. They will fulfill their intent. We will not need to wait tentatively for FalconBack to see fruition anymore."_ Vater Orlaag thought back, moving amongst the people he dealt with daily and displaying not so much as a hint towards the voice inside his head.

The white haired man mused over this, images flitting about in his mind's eye. Images of Rawhide, the crew now worming their way through the ground in a hellish ascension to the world above, Charles, and Dethklok.

"_No. They will fail. But one piece of the wall will crumble. I have foreseen it. It is so."_


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Day broke warm and inviting over Mordhaus. The sun rose in the clear blue sky in all its beautiful luster. The trees turned their leaves toward it, the grass stood at attention for it, and it bathed the land in a sort of unknowing contentment. Except for where it did not reach. One such place was the control room.

The two Klokateers nearly bumped heads when they leaned forward to inspect the machine, and by then, it was almost noon. They assumed it was glitching, but neither of them was talented enough to know why. The blinking light on the screen made no sense to them. It was impossible. There was no way that something like that could occur. They almost wanted to laugh, shrugging. Just a computer bug. Silly machines. But just then, other components started to bleat and beep pleadingly, glowing red. Loudly, a klaxon alarm began to sound in the room, catching the attention of everyone who had been put to work there. Facebones abruptly appeared on one of the screens, seemingly permanent gory grin in a sort of frown on his animated features while he proclaimed his part.

"Mordhaus is under attack! Mordhaus is under attack! We're being assaulted, folks, so do your duty and die to protect Dethklok!"

The Klokateers looked at each other in surprise, their hoods forming a depression where their jaws slackened and their mouths dropped open.

And then they ran.

"Lord Ofdensen! Sir! We're under attack!" One of the hooded men shouted as soon as they caught sight of Charles, who had been on the protective prowl since early that morning. His body became rigid, and the Klokateers caught up to him as he stalked past, on his way to the control center.

"Don't panic. I trust the shields are operational? They're not getting through this time." His lips were set in a thin line across his face, and he was calm. This was his element. He would not be beaten again.

"Well, yes, sir, but, ah-"

"But what?" Charles turned on the man, who seemed to shrink back, afraid.

"The shields, uhm…they aren't going to do any good." The CFO couldn't help himself. He had the Klokateer off his feet and supported solely by his tank-top collar before he could blink, his face close enough to see the man's gray eyes through the hood.

"Why not?" He barked authoritatively. The gear still on his feet swallowed and answered for his choking counterpart.

"Sir…they've come from underground."

* * *

Dethklok was in various states of inebriation when it occurred. Nathan was sprawled out over the RecRoom couch, barely conscious. Pickles was in his room, and no one even knew if he was alive or dead after the wild after-show events of the night before. Skwisgaar lay in the hot tub, looking relatively green and wondering why he had six fingers on each hand while trying to play his favorite scales in the dorian mode. Murderface was in the studio with Knubbler, futilely attempting to conjure of a list of words that rhymed with orange. And Toki was just wandering around, the most sober of them all.

The young guitarist roamed the castle complex, ground level tempting him far more than anything else. He simply walked, wondering why Skwisgaar had to be so cruel to him and why he allowed it to happen.

Without any prior warning, he felt a heavy rumble beneath his feet. It seemed to emanate from up ahead in the passageway that led down into Mordhaus' underbelly, where the prisoners were kept. A high-pitched whine accompanied the rumble, and he gasped, backing up slightly.

Toki watched in horror as the stone floor began to revolt against solidity, pushing up and spewing forth a cloud of dust and bits of rock. A cone of metal poked through, spinning like a top and growing larger in his sight. The drill suddenly burst all the way through the rocks, and with it, a human hand, like a dead man from the grave in a horror flick. He didn't wait to see any more.

A noise reached Nathan's sensitive ears. He grimaced- it was shrill and made him desperately want to vomit, a fate he'd been trying to avoid. It grew louder and louder, and his mind was just barely clear enough to identify it as screaming.

Toki burst into the room, plowing right through the door and attempting to cross to the other side at top speed. He continued to scream, until Nathan shouted louder than he did.

"Hey! Toki! Shut the fuck up!" He announced, chucking a bottle at the Norwegian. He missed, but Toki scrambled over to him and began tugging on his arm.

"Comes on, Nathans, gets up! Gets up now!" The back and forth motion of his pulling was too much for the hung over frontman, and he turned his head and retched onto the floor.

"Ugh, Toki…Toki don't…don't do that." He grumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Toki, looking terrified and exasperated, turned his attention on Skwisgaar.

"Skwisgaar! Gets out of's the hot tubs! We's ams have to go!"

"Go? Go's where?" The Swede growled.

"We's haves to get outs of here!"

By now, Nathan was becoming acutely aware that something had seriously spooked his bandmate, and sat up slowly.

"What's with you?" The guitarist whipped around, frantically grabbing at Nathan's hair and trying to drag the larger man to his feet.

"They ams backs!"

"Who's back? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The people whos ams tried to kills us ands Charles! Likes zomsbeezes! Froms underground!" Toki wrenched on Nathan's hair, which only got his hand swatted away roughly.

"What?" The frontman roared, getting to his feet as fast as he could without passing out or slipping in his own stomach fluids. Skwisgaar, too, was clambering out of the hot tub, resorting to holding his guitar like a battle axe once more.

"Uh…okay, come on, let's go hide." Nathan looked nervous.

"Wheres? If they comes from unders the ground, then they coulds pops up anywheres!" Skwisgaar tried to pull on his pants, one handed, with little success, cursing when he had to let go of the instrument.

"Uh…I don't…I don't know, okay? I'm drunk, I'm tired, and I need food. Let's, uh…let's split up! Everyone find your own damn hiding place."

"What's about Pickle and Murderface?" Toki was already backing towards the opposite door. Nathan shook his head.

"There's no time. They'll, uh, probably figure it out or somethin'. The fuck cares? Just go."

The three members of Dethklok ran for the door that Toki had already thrown open and nearly off its hinges, and then broke off, each seeking out the safest place they could think of. None of them actually considered the panic room that had been built during the renovations. And none of them knew why they were being attacked that time.

* * *

Droves of people poured out of the hole in Mordhaus' floor and met with Klokateers beating them down, but Rawhide was already gone with two back-up troopers. He stomped his way through the castle, wearing a confident smirk proudly on his face.

A pair of Klokateers exploded out of a side room, but Rawhide merely blinked and aimed his new toy. A burst of blue light exploded from the weapon, and the gears who had been standing ready for battle with rifles were on the floor yards away, giant smoldering holes clean through their midsections. The cauterized wounds never even had time to bleed. He smirked. It worked just as well as he'd hoped it would, but he still preferred his desert eagle. Taking out the pistol, he took off, twisting through the corridors and shooting anyone that got in his way.

A Klokateer ambushed him from behind a door. They scuffled while the troopers ran ahead, scouting and dissolving anyone who got in their way. Rawhide growled, avoiding the morning star that swung out at his torso by sucking in his stomach. He bashed the Klokateer in the head with his cannon, and then grabbed him by the hood and the hair underneath, bent him backwards, and brought a knee up into the curve of the man's spine. He screamed in agony before Rawhide dropped him on the ground and stomped on his head. It shattered like a watermelon being dropped from an airplane. He grimaced.

"Those were my new boots. Fucking dickweed."

Most of Mordhaus' crew was fighting the surge of people that were rising up out of the ground, and they had not anticipated the number of exit holes. There was one in the courtyard, one in the dungeons, one in the expansive wine cellar, and one in the corridor where Toki had first discovered them. Even with the hundreds of Klokateers Mordhaus possessed, their numbers were still stretched thin against the military-grade weapons that melted heads and blew people clean out of their shoes. Rawhide was attacked multiple times, but was largely left unscathed while he rose higher in the complex, searching for what he needed to complete the only part of his coup that was deliberate.

A bullet whizzed by his head, and he instinctively reached out and grabbed one of his black-clad troopers from his side, pulling him in front of his body as a human shield. The man was quickly peppered with holes and set to convulsing wildly. Rawhide frowned and huffed, blowing a stray piece of hair out of his eyes while he took aim. He could just make out the arm of the shooter, and pulled the trigger, focused on incapacitating the man.

The bullet burrowed into the Klokateer's forearm, and he yelped, dropping his gun. Rawhide discarded his dead trooper, carelessly tossing him aside, and crossed the distance between him and the injured attendant. He knelt down by the man and de-hooded him, revealing his pasty, pain-contorted face. Rawhide pressed the gear against the wall, sitting back on his haunches and examining the man' arm.

"Pretty nasty wound you have there."

"Fuck off."

Rawhide shrugged, expression impassive, and pressed his thumb into the hole in the Klokateer's arm. The man screamed, a blood-curdling screech, as he felt the bullet in his arm be driven even further, into muscle, tissue, and bone.

Just when he was sure he was going to faint, Rawhide stopped, and blinked at him.

"What is the access code for entry box 37-D?" He sounded bored. The Klokateer ground his teeth, fighting waves of intolerable pain.

"Go to hell, you fucking bastard."

Again, Rawhide drove his thumb into the man's arm. He also worked two other fingers down into the wound. Pressing outward, the sound was almost more disgusting than the sight. Ripping flesh and muscle made a noise suspiciously akin to prying apart the legs of a thanksgiving turkey. Blood flowed like a waterfall down over both Rawhide and the Klokateer, making a sticky mess of the red rug.

"I'll ask again." He began, his entire hand still buried in the arm of the tortured man, who simply glared at him. "What is the fucking access code for entry box 37-D?"

The Klokateer looked away, and Rawhide grabbed him by the neck, slamming his head into the wall repeatedly.

"Tell me, you motherfucking son of a whoring bitch!" The woozy Klokateer snaked his free arm down his leg and into his boot. He removed the dagger, a growl building deep in his chest.

Lifting the dagger to shoulder height, the abused Mordhaus attendant screamed and drove at Rawhide, but he was too weak from blood loss. Rawhide leaned back, evading the swipe, and grabbed the man's wrist, twisting the weapon out of his grip. Picking it up, the psychopath examined it for but a moment, and then drove it through the Klokateer's forehead without even batting an eye. Sighing, the redhead left the man dead and pinned to the wall, a captured butterfly to be killed for a collection, and continued on his way.

He and his remaining solider reached the entry box that would unlock a sensitive portion of the complex, and quickly looked both ways. Satisfied no one was around, Rawhide held out his hand, gesturing to his companion soldier to hand him the override switch. He hadn't wanted to use it, seeing as it only had enough power to work once, but he wasn't seeing a choice. The Klokateers were too well trained to give up sensitive information. He knew from a friend's advice that they'd rather kill themselves before jeopardizing Dethklok.

He slammed the box over the top of the keypad, where its stabilizing feet shot out and bit into the seam of the entry box. The screen flickered to life, and numbers flashed across it. Rawhide impatiently tapped his foot, ever alert for the sound of footsteps. In the distance, he could hear the explosions going off one after another, and wondered vaguely if the C4 was detonating as a response to the Klokateers' march against his troops, or as a diversion. Either way, it was working. No one came to confront them from any door or either side of the passageway.

The override box blinked green, granting access, but Rawhide had a sudden thought occur to him. He mulled it over for barely five seconds before his fingers raced across the keypad. Examining the code that whizzed across the flipped up monitor, he exhaled when he found what he was looking for, and pressed another series of buttons. The screen flashed from green to red before it exploded under his hands.

"Fuck!" He spat, wrenching his blistered limbs away from the smoking electronics. Down the hall, three Klokateers had appeared and opened heavy fire on Rawhide and his soldier, who was already slumping to the floor, a bullet having ruptured his heart. Before anything could hit the redhead, however, he was through the opened door and jamming it shut, seeking out the target he had come for in the first place.

* * *

The guards were stunned when Viktoria's door opened of its own free will, but before they could process the information, she was upon them, raving in her native tongue. She was ready for this. She had kept herself strong.

The German woman kicked the guns from the guards' hands, and they skittered away on the dirty floor. One made a grab for her mid section, but she flipped him over on to the floor, so that he lay on his back, and drove a dusty heel through his throat with malice. The other guard was scrambling for his gun. Viktoria let out a cry of anger and ran, jumping on the man's back and wrapping her legs around his shoulders. She held on while he clawed for breath, and then she bent backwards off his body, legs still joined and hands touching the floor. With a twist of her pelvis, the man was dead, and she picked up both guns.

Viktoria stomped her way through the dungeons, wary of who else might be underground with her. It took her a moment to adjust to the light of the corridor; dim as it was, it was still brighter than her cell.

The guards she met along the way fired upon her, but she expertly ducked in and out of open cells, returning the onslaught with the stolen weapons and felling all of them. She paused, passing an open door, from inside which she heard a shout.

"Viktoria!" Edgar looked at her pleadingly from where he was held prisoner, and she smirked.

"Edgar Jomfru. I did not think I vould be seeing jou again."

"Nor did I think I would lay eyes on such a pretty face, fair lady." Edgar raised his eyebrows at her. Viktoria made a tutting noise.

"Tsk tsk, Edgar. Flattery vill get jou novhere in this vorld. Or didn't jour mohder ever teach jou such things?" She placed her fists against her hips, still clutching the guns.

"On the contrary, my dear. It will get you anything you desire, provided you know your audience." He shifted, gesturing to the seat that made him a captive.

"Ah. Now I see. Jou vould like to get out of here, yes?" Viktoria leaned against the doorframe.

"Viktoria, you have an intelligent eye and a mind for discernment." With a sinking heart, Edgar watched as Viktoria shook her head.

"That is sveet, Edgar, but I'm afraid I have my heart set on anotder man. It vould just never vork out between us." With that, she blew Edgar a kiss, and slammed his cell door shut, the noise an ominous echo below Mordhaus. She had an objective to complete, and reloaded the dual Brügger & Thomet MP9's with the extra magazines she had lifted from the dead guards as she stepped into the elevator.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Zoe clutched her pen. She was nervous. Not only had Charles not come back to bed that morning as he'd said it would, but she hadn't seen him all day.

She tapped the pen against the edge of Charles' desk and crossed her legs. It made her feel more normal and less like someone clutching a rapier in their hand while trying to perform figure adjustment for Dethklok. She wasn't the financial wizard though. She was just a lawyer. And lawyers fought with words, not weapons.

Just as she leaned forward to examine the receipts and credit card charges again, something caught her eye. A little black box was mounted on the underside of the desk's top. The front of it possessed a speaker and a large red LED.

And that LED was flashing.

She stared into the panic light for a moment, willing it to shut off, but it did not. Anxious, Zoe clutched the sword even harder and rooted around for the pistol Charles kept in his desk. Pulling it out, she placed the gun on the desk, and debated her next move.

"Lady Warwick?" A crackly voice came over the panic box's intercom. She depressed the button that was off to the side.

"Two-sixteen, is that you?" She sighed in relief. She didn't feel as alone, all of a sudden.

"Yes ma'am. I have a message for you. From Lord Ofdensen." The diminutive Klokateer responded.

"Thank God. Okay. What is it?"

"Lord Ofdensen says _you-know-who_ is here. He would to get Dethklok into the panic room. Be as stealthy as you can. And when you get there, get in there with them."

Zoe was both hurt and grateful. On the one hand it meant she wouldn't have to face her own brother if she could avoid him until that point. On the other, it meant that Charles didn't trust her abilities enough to be able to fend for herself. Swallowing over the lump of emotion in her throat, Zoe nodded to herself.

"Alright. Thank you, two-sixteen!"

"Over and out, ma'am."

Zoe stood, the pistol in one hand and Caitir in the other. She took a final look at the warm safety of Charles' office, remembering all of the time they had spent there together. Everything from the first moment she had let herself in and looked out the window, contemplating exactly where her life would take her, to their first kiss, to that very second, and then turned away.

She was ready.

* * *

"Let'sch schee here. Orange…orange…splorange…corange…corange…hey! Isch _corange_ a word?"

Dick Knubbler signed, shifting to lean against his other hand on the couch. His elbows were propped up on his knees, and he looked like he would die of boredom at any moment.

"No, William. I'm pretty sure _corange_ is not a word, although admittedly I could be wrong. It's…it's whatever you want to do, in the end. But, maybe, we could try a different word. Isn't piss usually yellow, anyway?"

Murderface glared at him haughtily.

"Yeah, but the schong'sch about pissching orange after eating too many orangesch! Whaddaya want me to rhyme it with- _tangerine?_ Everybody knowsch there are no wordsch that rhyme with tangerine." The bassist declared proudly. The green lights in Knubbler's robotic eyes made a slow circle around the outside rims of the devices.

"Look, I'm just saying, maybe we should take a break from this. You know, work on another song or something. Let's just…let's just clear our heads."

Murderface shook his head and went back to chewing on the end of his pencil between scribbling down words.

"Porange…snorange…quorange…"

The producer felt like he was going to die before they ever got to the second line of the first verse. Why he was there watching Murderface try to write a new song for Planet Piss, he didn't know. He only produced them, not designed them from the ground up. But Murderface had wanted him present. Promised he was just putting the finishing touches on his masterpiece, and then they could record it. Knubbler chastised himself- he knew better than to listen to the moody bassist, but he had done it just the same.

It was while the two were lost in their own thoughts that the recording studio door splintered into a million smoking pieces. Murderface gasped, then sneered at the opening.

"Hey, you better fuckin' clean that up and replasche the damn door! That costssch usch money, you know!"

Knubbler let out a surprised yelp and ducked, narrowly avoiding the blast. He felt the top of his head sizzle, and searchingly reached a hand up, finding his hair to be singed. The producer hit the floor as the Klokateers who had been attending to the studio's daily chores jumped the assailants, wrestling the laser cannons out of their hands.

"My lord! You must escape!" A Klokateer grunted while elbowing one of the attackers in the ribs. He sprayed his bottle of cleaning solution into the eyes of the other man, who screeched and let go.

Murderface was still grumbling about the cost of the door when Knubbler stood, grabbed him by the shoulder, and steered him out the side door into one of the other recording rooms, where they could exit from.

"I'm too sober for this!" He wailed as they barricaded the door they had come through and continued on through. He flung open the opposite door, only to be met with the sight of three Klokateers being vaporized down the hall. Knubbler slammed the door shut and pushed one of the freestanding amplifiers up against it. He relaxed, wiping his brow, when all of a sudden a thump rattled the door and its frame. Dick jumped back, whimpering.

"Fuck, we're gonna die! William, babe, we're all done! This is it! We're dead! Pushing up daisies! Buying the farm! Not being able to produce any more Dethklok records! And there are no cocaine breaks when you're dead!" As punctuation, Knubbler had grabbed Murderface by his vest and began to shake him violently. He flinched at the contact, and pushed the producer away.

"Get a hold of yourschelf, man! Thisch schort of thing happensch all the ti-" He was abruptly cut off when the blade of an axe, covered in blood, burrowed its way through the barricaded door.

Both bassist and producer clung to each other, wearing the most pitiful faces they could muster, and began to scream.

The axe chopped and chopped at the door, and finally, a hole big enough to see through blew out. The face of a sneering junkie peered through at them and began to laugh in twisted humor at some sick joke. However, his expression changed in an instant, and the man slumped forward, impaling himself on the spiky wood.

"Murderface? Dick?" The soft voice was music to their ears.

"Zoe!" The bassist exclaimed, realizing he was still clinging to the shivering producer and quickly letting go. He brushed himself off disgustedly, but made no comments about being gay. It was not the time for such antics. Even he knew that.

Zoe's pale face appeared in the axe hole, much to the relief of the people inside. Her freckles stood out against the stark and scared whiteness of her skin, but her gaze was steady.

"Come on, move the amp. We've gotta go. We're under attack." She vocalized her repertoire for coming to find them with deadly confidence.

Murderface and Knubbler pushed the amplifier out of the way, the abused door swinging open on squeaking hinges, still supporting the weight of the body.

"Stay behind me." She ordered, looking them over to ensure they were alright.

"Do either of you know where the others are?" They both shook their heads, and she sighed.

"Alright. I'm going to get you to the panic room first. And then I'll go find them." She brandished Caitir ahead of her, the pistol backing up the noble weapon. The trio picked their way around dead bodies, Zoe jumping around corners, ready to strike. The sounds of gunfire and the clank of steel on steel were muffled as their progress brought them ever closer to their goal. Zoe silently realized this was the really the first time since arriving at Mordhaus where the castle walls revealed themselves to be flimsy in the face of an arduous, hate-driven attack. The structure was remaining largely intact since the renovations Charles had described to her, but there was still a sense of penetration that bit deep into her being and made her tremble in fear.

Finally, the disguised entrance was ahead of them. Zoe pressed the fake wall stone and stepped on the floor tile at the same time, and the door, which melded seamlessly with the wall, slid open. She could hear the sound of a battle growing louder behind her, and with authority, shoved the bassist and the producer inside, where they landed in a heap on the floor.

"Stay in here. Do not open the door for anyone, unless they tell you the password, which is…uh…" she floundered for a word no one would say on a regular basis. Murderface looked thoughtful.

"Hamburger time." He offered, and she nodded.

"Fine. The password is, uhm… hamburger time? Anyway, if someone comes to the door and says that, open up. If not, ignore them."

"Yesch, ma'am." Murderface was being particularly obedient, and it almost bothered her, but she didn't have the luxury of time to mull it over. Letting go of the button, the door slid closed, sealing a terrified Dick Knubbler and an impassive William Murderface away from the rest of the world.

* * *

Charles couldn't help it. He was angry, and it showed. He punched the wall, not surprised when it dented and barely left a scrape on his knuckles. He had intended to be out of the control center as fast as possible, on the frontlines where he belonged, but he was trapped in the room. The steel barricade doors were down, an unforeseen result of Rawhide's system override. Any and all exits from the room were sealed off, leaving him to pace impatiently while his techs attempted to open at least one way out.

"This bastard…" he growled, watching what he could of the ensuing carnage beyond his reach.

"My lord, we're almost there." A Klokateer informed him. He nodded, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Hurry." He replied, fingers tapping against his chair. He might have ultimately been in control of the movements of every last Mordhaus attendant, but he felt powerless and pathetic. That was not a feeling Charles Foster Ofdensen was used to, and didn't see himself becoming accustomed to it anytime soon. He cursed himself as well. Putting Mordhaus back down on land had been his dumbest idea ever, and for what? To conserve unnecessary energy costs and promote a worldly band image. He kicked himself mentally for endangering his boys, instead of helping them.

It hadn't been more than five minutes after the Klokateer announced that he would soon be free that a noise reached his ears. Charles tensed, listening carefully.

He was on the floor covering his head before the act had even been committed.

The double doors _and_ the steel barricade were engulfed by a blue glow before they turned orange and imploded into the area. The nearest Klokateers were instantly coated in molten steel, and those who didn't die instantly made the most unholy cross between a scream and a gurgle Charles had ever heard. He rolled over and glanced up, surprised. A man stood in the hole, keeping his eye on Charles, but leveling the weapon at the rows of Klokateers who were advancing upon him.

The manager scrambled. There was nothing he could do for them. He got to his feet and ran for the disinterred body of an Elite gear that had been waiting in the wings for his orders, and grabbed for his gun. The room had been cleared of almost all living beings in a matter of seconds.

"Charles Ofdensen." The man hissed. Charles crouched behind one of the computer stations, breathing as silently as he could. The man clicked his tongue and strolled casually into the room, stepping on the dead that littered the floor with no remorse.

"Come on, now, Charles. Come out to play! I won't bite, I promise." Charles closed his eyes and swallowed, preparing himself. It was him.

It was Rawhide.

Listening, Charles waited for what felt like an eternity before he turned, the barrel of the gun resting atop the station divider, and shot at the invader. Rawhide snarled and ducked out of the way, behind Charles' chair, only to pop up a moment later and fire his laser cannon over the back of it. The CFO gasped and rolled to the side, the place where he had been hiding but a moment before obliterated.

He fired again, barely feeling the recoil against his shoulder, even in his state of heightened awareness. His opponent followed suit, and Charles was forced on the defensive, running in a crouch along the line of computers as they were systematically blown to pieces.

Eventually, there was nowhere else to go. Rawhide slipped out from behind the bullet-peppered chair, feeling triumphant.

"You like?" He said, gesturing to the laser cannon even though he knew Charles wasn't looking at him. "A friend of mine made 'em. Great little things. Perfect for a day of invading, pillaging, and killing everything that stands in my way. And that, dearest Charlie, is you."

Rawhide stepped down off the chair's platform and onto the next level of flooring. Fatal mistake. He was within range. Charles exploded out from his hiding place and fired, the bullet slamming into the laser cannon and causing it to misfire. Rawhide cursed, and dropped the cannon, where it smoked and fizzled out, no longer usable.

Swiftly, the younger man reached behind his back while keeping his desert eagle trained on the CFO, who shot patterns across the room with a talented reload in between lightning-fast events. Rawhide, expertly avoiding the barrage, pulled out his trusty chained hook. He darted to Charles' far right, and before he could turn and fire, the claw shot out and wrenched the gun from Charles' hands. Rawhide retracted the grapple, rolling the chain around his fist.

"Not bad, Charlie. Not bad."

Charles felt naked. He was a solid fighter, of course, but he now faced an opponent who wielded a gun, a grapple, and who knew what else. So he did the only thing he could- the manager began to negotiate.

"What do you want with me?" His glasses slid down his nose, but he didn't suffer himself the indignity of adjusting them. His vision wasn't as bad as he let people believe, to preserve his façade of the mild-mannered businessman until proving otherwise became necessary.

Rawhide shrugged, wiping his desert eagle off on his flannel shirt, looking demure.

The lunge was sudden and powerful. He flew at Charles, who met him head on. The first thing he did was grab the hand that held the gun and try to twist it away. But Rawhide pummeled him in the side with his chain-wrapped fist, a makeshift set of steel knuckles. Charles felt a rib crack, and winced. He couldn't position himself against his opponent well enough to force Rawhide into dropping the gun, so he simply avoided it.

The pair scuffled until Charles was forced backwards. Tripping, he landed on his back on the floor, with Zoe's brother heavy on top of him. Rawhide looked mad. He snarled, setting the gun aside of his own free will in order to beat Charles mercilessly with both hands.

Charles grabbed hold of Rawhide's forearms, diverting the punches and pulling his opponent closer. Without warning, he head-butted the man on top of him twice, who grunted and kneed Charles in the crotch.

The chained fist connected with Charles' cheek, and he saw stars. The claw that was attached to the chain swung back and forth, its knife-like tips cutting through the CFO's shirt and into his chest. He held his own well enough, focusing mostly on Rawhide's jaw and solar plexus when he could get a punch or a kick in. He landed a blow to his liver, and the redhead coughed blood up all over him.

The duo rolled across the floor, a violent mashing of body parts lashing out with intent to kill. In the melee, Charles' restrained fingers brushed against the grip of the desert eagle, and he felt for it blindly.

A distracting punch to Rawhide's mouth gave him the opening he needed to grab the weapon and fire. But Rawhide had seen it coming and pushed his opponent's arm out of the way, and it merely grazed his collarbone. Charles fired again, only to find the weapon devoid of rounds. Forcing his body weight against the younger man, he flipped them, and brought the empty gun down hard into Rawhide's nose. Blood spurted out, and the man howled. He was not out for the count, though, and twisted Charles' arm. He felt it pop out of joint and go limp, unable to keep his grip on the heavier weapon.

Rawhide was enraged.

"Fuckin' douche! Now you die!" He roared, grabbing Charles by the ankle after they'd both stumbled to their feet and the smaller man had landed a great flying kick. With a great deal of effort, Rawhide flung him across the room like a ragdoll. Charles sailed through the destroyed doorway, and hit the opposite wall full force. He slid down to the floor in a lump, scrabbling to his feet as soon as he had the presence of mind to move. And then he ran.

Her brother was strong. Stronger than Charles had anticipated. And he still only had a vague idea of why he had been made the target of his lethal ministrations.

He ran through Mordhaus until he could run no more, the searing pain in his side forcing him to stop and breathe deeply before he fainted from a lack of oxygen. He gasped, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. He was leading the maniac hot on his heels hopefully away from Dethklok and away from Zoe. And he needed to get them all to safety, far away, before Rawhide could find them.

* * *

Nathan groaned, a melancholy harmony to the noise his stomach was making. He wasn't that far from the kitchen, and he couldn't hear anything anymore. No gunfire, no explosions, and no voices. Maybe he could at least find some chips or something.

The voice in the back of his head tried to reason with him, to tell him to stay put and be quiet, but as always, irrationality won out over logic. The frontman sighed, carefully peering out from the door.

Why he had chosen a storage closet to hide in, he didn't know, but so far it had proved a wise decision. Seeing nothing in either direction, Nathan Explosion fully forced himself out into the open, trying to be sneaky but being too hung over to accomplish more than bumbling along.

He turned the corner. Bodies lined the sides of the corridor, those of both the Klokateers and their opponents. Again, no sign of living creatures. Shrugging to himself, Nathan plunged ahead, stepping over the various limbs and appendages that got in his way.

There it was! The kitchen! The frontman barged his way through the battle casualties and tumbled into the empty room. With no sign of any invaders or Jean-Pierre, Nathan set to work. He rooted around in the refrigerator first. Finding nothing that tickled his fancy, Nathan checked the cabinets. He was beginning to lose heart when he opened the last cabinet. Moving a jar of peanut butter aside, Nathan grinned.

He wrangled the bag of chips down from the second shelf, immediately ripping into the vacuum-sealed container and stuffing his face with the potato product. His delighted chewing drowned out all other sound, so he never heard the approaching footsteps. When his hand delved back into the bag and he swallowed, a voice turned the blood in his veins to ice, even though he continued the motions of eating.

"Hello, Nathan." The voice was thick with a German accent. He didn't know anyone in Mordhaus that sounded like that, but it sounded familiar. Flinching, he didn't even have to turn around to diagnose the situation.

"Oh shit."


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

She ran at them with a crazed battle cry. Startled, the two men fumbled for their canons, but didn't have time to fire before she sliced them clean apart. The stunned expressions on the faces of the two men became marred with the blood that bubbled out of their mouths, and while their torsos slid off their hips to the left, their legs fell to the right.

Zoe was numb. She didn't have time to be concerned with the fact that she was slaughtering people. This was personal. She flicked Caitir, the blood adorning the sword from forte to foible sliding off and hitting the wall with a sickly slopping sound.

A high-pitched voice reached her ears, and she sighed. She'd found yet another one. Walking along the flagstone floor, Zoe was surprised to see both Toki _and _Skwisgaar jammed in the doorframe, shoving each other roughly.

"I's gots heres first!" Toki growled as Skwisgaar tugged his hair.

"No's yous was not's! Yous ams dildos, Toki's!

"No, yous ams dildos, Skwisgaar!" The guitarists fought for supremacy in a schoolyard-esque battle of nose tweaking and hair yanking. Skwisgaar yelped when Toki delivered a purple-nurple, and the younger guitarist slipped past him, just about to close the door on his Scandinavian counterpart when the Swede grabbed the back of his t-shirt and pulled.

Zoe felt the corner of her lips turn upward slightly. She had thought she would never smile again when the terrible truth sunk into her, after the first kill of the day.

"Rawhide's lookin' for you." The woman had wheezed in her last breath, sending shivers up and down Zoe's spine. After that, she hadn't even batted an eye when she ran someone through or shot them. It no longer bothered her- it was just a necessary evil. Relieved to have found the guitarists relatively unharmed, she hurried forward.

"Toki! Skwisgaar!" The two foreigners looked up at Zoe, surprised, from where they were entangled, each pushing the other's face away and clinging to fistfuls of hair at the same time. Toki was the first to relinquish his grip, and crossed the distance between him and the assistant-manager, throwing his arms around her and making a contented noise.

"Zoe's! I's thoughts I's never gets to sees you agains!" He squeezed her tightly, and Zoe returned the hug as best she could with a gun in one hand and a rapier in the other. Skwisgaar, ruffled but unharmed, strode forward, smoothing his hair.

"_Ja_, we thoughts we's ams headed for de gates of valhalla soon."

The pleasantries abruptly ended when a blue bolt of light whizzed past them. Both guitarists cried out, and Zoe shielded them with her body.

"Guys! Get to the panic room! The password is, uh, the name of dinner last week and what minutes and seconds are!" Skwisgaar and Toki looked at each other, confused.

"Well dat sounds likes a really longs passwords." The blond commented, and Zoe rolled her eyes, backing up and forcing them back as well.

"You know what I mean. It's _hamburger time._ Murderface and Knubbler are already inside- go! Now!" Another blast was fired, and it just grazed the young woman's arm. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, the burning wound bubbling where her clothes had fused to her skin.

The last Toki and Skwisgaar saw of her, she was running headfirst into the fray, like some sort of dark, suit-clad angel with a halo of fire.

Zoe narrowly avoided another cannon blast, but found an advantage in their design- they were potent weapons, but slow to reload themselves. She had enough time between blasts to cross in front of the barrel and to the opposite side of the man. With a grunt, she launched into a well-practiced roundhouse, and kicked the gun from her opponent's grip. Zoe thrust Caitir, and the sword pierced the stomach of the man. Satisfied that he would bleed out, she moved forward.

Zoe kept herself well guarded, crossing the sword and the gun. Running through Mordhaus with a keen eye for any members of Dethklok, she shot everyone who got in her way with beautiful accuracy. Gallons of blood stained her gray pantsuit and spattered against her face.

A pair of soldiers, both male, ambushed her from around a corner. Zoe squeezed the trigger of Charles' pistol, only to discover it was empty. She cursed, knowing she should have been keeping track of how many shots she had fired.

A sharp blow to her left temple sent her reeling backwards, and she stumbled over a body. The man laughed heartily, obviously enjoying his opportunity to assault a woman. From the ground, Zoe lashed out with the sword, and caught the man who was more hesitant to attack across the lower stomach. He squealed like a pig, and then gurgled somewhat, his bowels dropping out of the slash mark. Zoe made a face as his intestines hit the ground, sloshing like cold pasta being dumped onto a good china plate.

His partner looked at him with a blank expression, and then hauled Zoe off the ground. She dropped Caitir in the struggle, and panicked. He flipped her over, pressing her back to his considerable gut while placing her in a deadly sleeper hold. She fought, but he was much taller than her, and her feet were already off the ground.

Zoe bit down on the fleshy arm around her neck, but the man chuckled and squeezed tighter. The edges of her vision blackened, and she choked.

"Cha-rles." Zoe wheezed, a numbness invading her body as her struggling grew less vicious. She was dying. This was it. She closed her eyes, knowing there was nothing more she could do and that her time had come, but a familiar voice brought her back from the edges of eternal slumber.

"Excuse me, but that's my, ah, sugar you're fucking with."

The thud of flesh hitting flesh close to the side of her head made her eardrum pop and buzz uncomfortably, but Zoe was unexpectedly released, and she crumbled to the floor.

Rubbing at her throat and the side of her head, a hand appeared in her vision. Letting her gaze travel up the arm, Zoe was met with the concerned eyes of her lover. She grabbed Charles' hand and he helped her up. Looking in all directions to ensure there was no one within shooting range, Zoe embraced him, kissing him hurriedly.

"Charles…what happened to you?" Her joy at seeing him again melted into concern, and she gently brushed at the swollen gashes across his cheek. He dismissed her distress, and something frantic (and, admittedly, turned on) inside him made him pull her close once again and kiss her as many times as he dared.

A precious minute passed. The smell of blood reached their noses, and Charles returned to reality, knowing any time wasted on the frivolity of emotion was time he wasn't spending protecting Dethklok. He panted and held her out at arms length, carefully avoiding the burn on her arm.

"Listen, Zoe. There's no time. I have a plan, but we have to work fast. Is Dethklok in the panic room?" Her eyes flickered around nervously.

"Part of them is. I'm having trouble finding Nathan and Pickles." Charles felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and looked over his shoulder. Shadows on the curved wall. It wouldn't be long before they had company.

"Dammit. Alright, here's what you have to do." He leaned in and whispered against her ear.

"_Ready both Dethcopters. Have the second one use the shield generator. Get Dethklok onto the second chopper- make sure no one sees. Then have the first one go up. While attention is turned on that one, the second one flies out of here with little damage. See if our friends in Serbia can't accommodate you and the boys for a little while."_ She looked horrified, and clutched at his shirt.

"But what about you?" He pushed her away, hearing voices approaching from the north.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." He lied. Zoe nodded, not looking convinced, and lingered, watching Charles slip into a battle-stance. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him- just took in everything about him, close to tears. It occurred to her then, as an unnerving knowing sensation, that one of them was going to die that day. She knew he knew it, too. It was then that he realized she was still there.

"Zoe! Get the fuck out of here, and do your job! This is no time to be worrying. You have a mission, complete it. Just go."

"But Charles, I-"

"GO." He thundered, pushing her. She hit the wall, a few tears spilling over her bottom eyelashes. Bending down, Zoe reached for Caitir, examining it.

"Take Caitir. She's the sharpest blade in Mordhaus." She tossed it to him, and he caught it by the hilt with ease.

"Thanks. Now get your ass out of here. I'll see you in Serbia. I promise."

Zoe backed up down the hall, taking one last look at Charles, who held the sword out in front of him with his left hand.

"I love you, Charles." She bleated pitifully.

He only nodded, adjusting his glasses, and she couldn't stand to watch any more. Wiping at her eyes and trying to be strong, Zoe turned and ran down the hall towards the food storage room as fast as she could.

* * *

"The fuck do you want with me this time?" Nathan had finished the chips and was inching towards the door, very aware of the two MP9's the woman flaunted. He recognized the black outfit as the same outfit the other woman wore when she had attacked him and Toki had knocked her out with a vodka bottle to the head.

"Jou know vhat I vant, dear, sveet Nathan." She lifted the guns, and pointed them at him, stalking him like a jaguar in the wild.

"Uh…no, not really." Viktoria scoffed, cornering her target and pressing him back into the counter.

"Then allow me to show jou." Viktoria leaned in to Nathan, who pulled back, afraid. He knew how this ended. He got a knee to the crotch, a drunk Norwegian came to his rescue, and then he dragged said Norwegian around while grumbling to himself and bashing people over the head with a flaming 2x4.

"Come on, Nathan. I know jou vant it." Indeed, his body betrayed him in the presence of a beautiful woman. But part of him knew better than to give in, thankfully.

Viktoria felt her anger rising, and jammed the muzzle of one gun into Nathan's ribcage. Before she could take what she wanted, however, something heavy hit her in the back of the head. She whipped around, fury burning in her eyes.

"I don't think so, bitch." Zoe reached for another frying pan, looking beyond Viktoria's infuriated glare.

"Run Nathan! Get to the panic room!" She shouted just as Viktoria began to fire. Zoe whipped the frying pan at her as a diversion before diving behind the kitchen's island. Viktoria panned her guns across the open area, huffing. Her prize had escaped. No matter. She'd get to him soon enough.

"Poor baby." She crooned, crossing leg over leg to approach the far side of the island. "Are jou upset because jour own brotder is going to kill the one jou love? Don't vorry- jou'll be joining him soon enough."

Zoe crawled along the edge of the island, heart pounding out of her chest. She could see Viktoria's leg out of her peripheral vision. This was it.

She slid out with a yell, kicking straight up at Viktoria and bringing her heel down hard into the German woman's lower stomach. While the woman was doubled over, Zoe vaulted onto her feet and pushed Viktoria's hands away from her midsection. Twisting her wrists and wrenching her arms down, she brought her knee up to connect with Viktoria's face. Blood dribbled out of her split lip and nose, and she finally dropped the MP9s, which Zoe kicked away, seeing as she didn't have time to grab them.

Viktoria snarled and crashed her head into Zoe's, and then twisted, sinking her teeth into Zoe's shoulder. The redhead hissed and let go of one of her opponent's wrists, cracking her in the face with a sharp punch. Zoe spun, folding Viktoria's arm against her body and snapping it in the wrong direction. Viktoria brought her good arm down against Zoe's shoulder, but she grabbed it, elbowing the ex-Revengencer in the ribs. Folding in half to throw Viktoria's weight off balance, Zoe flipped her with a small yell of power.

The brunette sailed over Zoe's back, her legs crashing into the island counter top, and then her upper back, shoulders, and head hit the tiled floor. She didn't move. Blood seeped out from the place where her head had driven into the tile.

Zoe caught her breath, standing over Viktoria. Then, taking possession of the scattered MP9s, she continued on her way to find the last member of Dethklok.

* * *

Pickles rolled over, tangled in his blanket. He groaned, the grating noises getting louder when he willed them to stop.

The drummer drunkenly disinterred himself from his bed and rolled onto the floor. Cursing, Pickles stumbled to the door in his underwear and flung it open.

"The feck is goin' on out here? Can't a drunk guy get some sleep, dood!" He yelled, his shoulder hitting the wall. Pickles waved a beer bottle around, brandishing it at whoever passed by, and not caring about the fact that there were a bunch of people not wearing Klokateer masks parading around.

Suddenly, Pickles was tackled by a gear.

"My Lord! Get down!" He commanded, another of Pickles' attendants caught a plasma blast in the face, blowing his head clean apart. Pickles coughed, a sick yellow liquid spewing forth from his nose and mouth. The Klokateer's weight on his body didn't help the situation, and he felt his face press into his vomit.

Pickles swung back with his free hand, shoving the Klokateer off his back.

"Get the feck off me, ya feckin douchebag! The feck is happening?" Pickles struggled to his feet, his limbs flailing. In the wake of his windmilling arms, he smashed an insurgent in the face, knocking him out cold. Another one slipped in the vomit, and broke his back in the fall.

The Klokateer looked startled, and quickly got to his feet.

"Lord Pickles, Mordhaus has been invaded. Your life is in danger, you need t-" Pickles looked at him curiously when he suddenly stopped, slumping to the floor. Bullets began to whiz past him, and one grazed his thigh.

"Feck!" He swore, a hand on his leg. He wasn't feeling much pain, though, and for once, his drunkenness was a blessing. As soon as it hit him that he wasn't going to die of bloodloss, Pickles took off into a stumbling run.

* * *

Charles swung Caitir mightily, every muscle in his body poised for the impact. He was wielding it less like a fencing sword and more like a broadsword at this point, and it sliced two people in half. He was glad he'd had it specially built to handle such abuse. Spinning on his heel, he brought the sword down on the head of an attacker that approached from behind. The rules of fencing were lost on these people, it seemed, and his recently-disjointed arm jarred painfully as the sword cleaved straight into a skull.

He slid the sword out of the center of the leaking face, and twirled again, tossing the sword to his opposite hand and valiantly piercing through the heart of a woman who hefted an axe above her shoulders. Squealing, she dropped the axe, and it burrowed into the left side of her body. She slumped, twitching on the flagstone.

From behind him in the curving hall, Charles was treated to the shudder an unmistakable voice could warrant from him.

"You're handy with a sword, huh?" Rawhide clapped his hands together, flicking off the blood from countless Klokateers. Charles straightened, drawing a deep breath.

"Yes. I fenced in college."

"Hm. Don't look much like the footwork of a fuckin' fairy you've got goin' there."

"I've learned to adapt." The CFO glared over his shoulder, transferring the sword back to his left hand.

Rawhide surveyed the path of destruction Charles had left in his wake, raising an eyebrow.

"Adapt? You've single handedly taken out half my fuckin' army after I practically massacred you. Or… was that my sister's doing?" Charles growled deep in his throat, turning now to face his foe. They circled each other, Rawhide in the possession of his grappling chain and a falchion he'd hijacked from a weapons display.

"Leave her out of this!" Charles whispered, a lethal calm settling into every bone in his body. Rawhide chuckled.

"Man, get a grip. She's _my_ sister, after all. I can involve her any way I want. And, of course, you brought this on her yourself."

Charles held his tongue, and his ground. As he expected, Rawhide eventually grew impatient and struck first. Their swords clanked together and screeched as they melded steel. While both men knew a falchion was more for axe-style wielding than swordplay, Rawhide's tremendous upper body strength made up for the discrepancy.

Charles clenched his teeth, throwing his weight forward to try to compensate for the strength difference.

"And...just how...did I do that?" He spat through his teeth. The grappling claw lashed out and bit into his side, and the manager hissed, the deadlock temporarily forgotten.

Rawhide flicked back the grapple and caught it in his hand, where it looked more like a metal flower than a deadly weapon. Charles forced the gaping gash in his ribs to the recesses of his mind, where pain was irrelevant. The younger man pushed Charles back with the falchion, whipping it around and dragging it right to left in the air. It barely missed Charles, who deflected it with a sloppy parry.

The pair battled it out, slashing and thrusting at each other with a mix of precision and raw aggression. Charles fought hard, but was being forced back.

"How?" Rawhide panted between blows. Caitir grazed his torso, ripping his flannel shirt and his dingy wife beater. "Before you, I had it all. The money poured in from the sympathetic sister. She felt sorry for me."

Rawhide jumped high, avoiding a low blow from Charles. Striking with the falchion, he grimaced when it caught in the crossed steel guard of Caitir, the serpents holding the weapon's blade just above Charles' fingers. The CFO smirked, twisting the rapier and subsequently wrenching the falchion from Rawhide's grasp. He thrust the sword at his opponent, but Rawhide dodged out of its way, wrenching a Swiss halberd from a suit of armor. Damn these ridiculously readily available weapons!

Charles took in his surroundings. They had fought their way onto the second floor terrace, which was really more like a giant Romanesque atrium with a mosaic floor and an open balcony above the roof of the first floor courtyard atrium on the far side of the picnic area. The place was deserted, and peering out in the distance, he could see the smoke that rose from various portions of the complex.

Rawhide wrapped both meaty hands around the steel staff of the halberd, and struck out, crossing the black with an angled deflection from Caitir. Charles took the opportunity to sweep Rawhide's legs out from under him. He landed on his back with a hiss, the air escaping from his lungs.

Charles drove Caitir downward, but barely caught Rawhide in the side, leaving only a small scratch, as the man on the floor rolled out of the way and got to his feet. Their weapons crossed again and again, a deadly dance across the atrium, which involved fists and feet as much as the rapier and the halberd.

"But you...you put an end to all that, ya fuckin' bastard. You had to erase her from a legal existence. You took over her finances. _You_ put an end to _my_ gravy train!" Rawhide took an elbow to the face as Charles spun into the halberd's advance, smartly catching the pole to the shoulder and avoiding the blade.

"You were using her!" Charles retorted, jumping into the air and landing a flying kick. He was mad now, and his anger fueled his fighting.

For a moment, the tables turned. Charles landed blow after blow, and Rawhide barely had time to deflect Caitir's furious raining swipes.

"And none of this would be happening if you had just left it alone, you cocksucking bastard!" Charles dealt a wrathful right hook, and Rawhide fell to his knees. The CFO panted, tightening his grip on Caitir's hilt. Zoe's brother was nearly unrecognizable, his swollen face coated in blood.

"My condolences." He murmured sarcastically, leveling the blade with Rawhide's neck. Charles wound up and pulled back, heading for a gruesome decapitation. But Rawhide was insane enough to bargain with the devil.

He brought his right arm up during the swing, and Caitir cut into his wrist. Biting back an enduring smile, Rawhide had just enough time to wrench his whole body upward by using the halberd as a vaulting pole, and kicked out with both feet. Charles was caught dead in the chest full force before Caitir completed its severance, and the hand fell neatly by Rawhide's knee. Charles blew backwards into the stone balcony, and it shattered upon impact. He tumbled onto the flat roof below, skittering off the edge and clinging for his life.

Rawhide blinked at his wrist, which spurted blood rather comically, in his opinion. His got to his feet, wriggling out of his flannel shirt and wrapping it around the dismembered stump with a chuckle. Clearing his head while applying pressure to the shirt, he stalked over to the edge of the balcony and jumped down onto the roof below, a spring in his step.

Charles frowned, fingers grasping for a hold that wasn't there. His arms were fully on the roof supporting him, but he wouldn't hold much longer. Rawhide sneered at him as he approached.

"Nice try, Charles. Really, that was fun. We should do this again some time." Rawhide ground the ball of his booted foot into Charles' right hand, and he howled, losing his grip on that side. The CFO dangled precariously for a moment before Rawhide lashed out, kicking him in the face as hard as he could.

"Oh yeah. I forgot. You'll be dead."

Charles plummeted off the roof, Caitir falling mercifully wide of his descent. His body struck first, absorbing a good portion of the blow, but his head bounced of the flagstone walkway, a sickening crack echoing throughout the abused courtyard.

Darkness enveloped him, and he lay there, broken and unmoving.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

_Thump. Thump._

Everything looked gray and hazy, then faded to black once more.

Shadows.

_Thump. Thump._

"Yeah, we're takin' em down in a few." The patter of feet was a sound he could latch onto, but it stopped.

"Damn. Looks like someone got 'im. Let's hope it was the boss, otherwise he'll be pissed as fuck."

"Well, Dethklok and that Warwick chick are dead in a couple minutes, anyway. That helicopter is never going to make it out of here."

The feet faded, and so did his awareness.

_Thump. Thump._

He could hear someone sighing, wheezing in the dusty fallout. A body hit the ground next to him and bounced, and he stared into the grotesquely maimed face until he could look no more.

_Thump. Thump._

Time was passing. He could tell by the sun in the cloudy sky. He felt cold, but could not shiver. He felt pain, but could not cry out. He was adrift in a sea of non-existence, and he wasn't quite sure just _how_ he was aware of such a thing. He simply _was_.

_Thump. Thump._

Sound was distant. Light was distant. A fishbowl barricaded him from the rest of the world. He pressed against it with all his strength, but that was feeble and did little good. He felt as through he were drowning in his own mind.

"Chief?"

_Thump. Thump._

"Chieef? Ya alive? Charles?"

_Thump_.

The red-nosed face he knew so well, but couldn't quite put a name to, swam into view. It blocked the dead man from his vision, and he felt something poking at his eyelids. Wasn't this man named after a food? What was it?

"Charlie? Hey, if you can hear me, ah…do somethin', dood."

Charles groaned in response, and the redhead smiled.

"There 'e is! Thought you were dead there, for a minute. Don't do that, dood. Scared the feckin' shit outta me. Don't…don't do that again, er…again."

_Pickles_. That was it. His name was Pickles. Charles became aware of his memory flooding back, and felt relief wash throughout his system.

"Where 'm I?" He choked. Pickles knelt beside him, straightening his body out so he was slightly more comfortable.

"Yer in the yard, dood. Looks like ya got yer ass kicked and tossed over the balcony."

Yes, he remembered. Charles coughed, feeling a combination of bile, blood, phlegm, and spit flood his throat and mouth. Turning his head to the side as slow as he could, he let the liquids trickle out from between his bruised lips.

"Whoa, dood. Yer bleedin' pretty badly."

"I'll be alright." He heard himself say, though he wasn't totally sure if he _could_ be alright, after all of that. It was far more than most normal humans could withstand. Thankfully, he had never been what one could classify as _normal_.

"Pickles, help me up." Charles wheezed, his presence of mind growing stronger. He sat up, dizziness and nausea overcoming him. Pickles cast him a worried, sideways glance.

"Maybe you shouldn't move, Chief."

"I'm fine." The battered CFO assured, self-checking his wounds. They weren't as bad as he expected. He was missing a couple teeth; it wasn't the first time. He would simply have to have them surgically replaced with replicas once again. They were back molars, too, which meant it wouldn't show as badly.

A few bones in his face were broken, but nothing that wouldn't heal in time. Mostly the damage was flesh-deep, and wouldn't even scar, if he was lucky. His nose, too, was busted, but again, it would fix itself. He grabbed hold of the cartilage and maneuvered it back into place, much to the disgust of his underwear-clad companion. Miraculously, his jaw was still intact, though it probably had a hairline fracture or two.

He had a couple more broken ribs, some deeper cuts, and his back was ripped up from the broken bits of the stone balcony. His crushed fingers were throbbing, but none seemed to be broken. As far as internal bleeding, it was quite possible. The fall he had taken was jarring enough to cause trauma, but he didn't have time to worry about it. His bad knee was severely out of joint, his spine looked like a series of hairpin turns, and he was almost certain he had a break in his hip, but he was alive, and far less worse for wear then the last time he had endured such a beating. Rawhide was still an annoying gnat compared to his real nemeses.

The real issue was his cracked skull. The wound trickled blood profusely, flowing into his ear and down his neck. He knew there was no way he hadn't received a terrible concussion, but he still had all his faculties, it seemed. He could go on. He would endure.

Something that had happened more recently grabbed at his memory's attention, and he fought to catch hold of it. While he struggled to remember, Charles rubbed at his bleary, bruised eyes (his new glasses were shatter-resistant, and though they were skewed on his nose, they were still usable) and coughed again.

"I'm better than I, ah, look. Why…why aren't you with the rest of the guys?" The guys…Dethklok…it had something to do with Dethklok…

Pickles shrugged.

"I dunno where they are, dood. I was asleep, and then I woke up, and then I got shot," here he gestured to his leg, at which Charles frowned as best he could, "and then I ran away, and then I killed this guy, and then I found you."

Indeed, a broken bottle protruded from the neck of the dead man that had bled out next to Charles. At least the drummer was far too hammered to remember that this had ever happened when he sobered.

"They should be, ah, in the panic room…with Zoe…"

Zoe. Panic room. Charles scrunched up his face, which pleaded out on any sort of emotional response, trying to recall just what it was that he had witnessed or heard while he was slipping in and out of consciousness.

The distant _whirr_ of helicopter blades finally brought the realization upon him.

Pickles nearly fell over backwards when Charles pushed onto his haunches, and then onto his feet, tipping slightly before regaining his balance. He ran fully on adrenaline, now. His body screamed for him to collapse into blissful sleep, but he would not give in. He could continue.

"Hey, where you goin' so fast, Charles?" Pickles looked up at him questioningly. Charles bit down on the tattered sleeve of his shirt, ripping it off before he answered.

"Listen, Pickles, the rest of the band is in, ah, serious trouble. These people who attacked are planning to blow up the Dethcopters. The rest of Dethklok is supposed to be _on_ the Dethcopters." Charles wound the sleeve of his shirt around his hand and connected it to the bleeding area, applying pressure to his head wound. Something glinted in his peripheral vision, and with a start, he realized it was Caitir, banged up, but still a useful weapon.

"So whaddaya want me to do, chief?" The drunk on the ground tossed a piece of the shattered balcony across the grass. Charles debated for a moment.

"Get to my office. Stay there, lock the door, and don't touch anything."

"Even the lamps?" Pickles quipped.

The hint of a smirk turned the corners of Charles' lips upward.

"Especially not the lamps."

* * *

"Come on you guys, lemme in!" Nathan banged on the hidden door with growing urgency.

"You didn't schay the passchword." Murderface bellowed from within.

"Fuck, I don't know the password! Zoe didn't tell me the fucking password! Just open up! It's me! Nathan Explosion!"

"Ors it's could be somes dildos who sounds like Nat'an Explosions." Skwisgaar retorted.

"Yeah. What if you're not you?" Murderface

Nathan gawked at the door, which was locked from the inside, and stopped to consider this.

"Uh…you know, you're right, Murderface. Okay, uh…ask me something only I would know!"

The room inside was silent for a moment.

"Hmm…Whatsch the passchword?"

Nathan roared unintelligibly at the door, but he didn't have the opportunity to try to break it down. Zoe rounded the corner, keeping her guns leveled at the direction she had just come from.

"Nathan! Are you alright?" She looked over her shoulder.

"Yeah. They won't lemme in because I don't know the fucking password." He grumbled.

"That's okay. I actually have something to ask of you." Zoe finally backed up to him and wiped her face with her sleeve.

"I need you to go find Pickles. Almost all the bad guys are dead- it was pretty interesting to watch."

Zoe's memory conjured up the confusing images. The hands and bodies of the insurgents were blowing apart of their own free will? Impossible. That was when she realized the laser cannons were flawed. They were overheating from overuse and blowing the people behind the guns to bits. Since that shocking realization hit, a fresh wave of vigor had overcome her, and she had gotten as many of the insurgents to fire on her with their cannons as possible. They only problem was that she didn't know whether or not her brother was alive, and didn't know whether backup was coming or not. It was imperative to get Dethklok to Serbia.

Nathan pondered this for a moment before Zoe looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.

"Please, Nathan? You'll be okay, I swear. I have to go do something else…just find him and bring him back here. Oh, and the password is hamburger time."

He nodded slowly, and Zoe pressed the guns into his hands.

"You know how to shoot, right?"

"Yeah." Nathan grunted, examining the weapons.

"Good. Okay. Go get Pickles. I'll be back later to get you."

They split up in opposite directions.

The breeze hit her before she even mounted the landing pad. Both Dethcopters, one behind the other, were spinning their blades in preparation for takeoff. Zoe boarded the second Dethcopter, which would take Dethklok to Serbia, and gave the pilot his express instructions. She made sure he understood them thoroughly before she disembarked from the hulking beast of a flying machine and headed over to the one that would act as a decoy.

Zoe stepped onto the hinged platform that served as a door and into the belly of the decadent Dethcopter. She climbed up towards the cockpit, and opened the door thoughtlessly.

A foot met her face as soon as she had opened the door wide enough, and Zoe stumbled backwards, slamming into the stair railing. She wiped at her lip, glaring at her opponent, part of her surprised, and the other part having known all along that something like this was coming.

* * *

Charles made his way through the chaos, quickly piecing together what had happened in his mental absence.

The laser cannons were misfiring left and right. Troopers lay in pieces amongst the bodies of the valiant Klokateers who had fought and died for Dethklok. In a fight where the physical numbers had been vastly different (the Klokateer army numbered more than the British army, whereas total there had only been about 300 insurgents) but the weapons had evened the playing field, Mordhaus had triumphed, as far as he knew. There were already live Klokateers taking death counts and waiting for the final announcement that they had either won or lost.

Charles could have smiled at the irony. What might have been the greatest handheld weapon of all time had killed the people that wielded them. He passed through hallways lined with bodies, until the corpse of a young man caught his eye.

The body leaned against the wall, and with a start, Charles realized the man wasn't dead. His arms and legs were missing, but the wounds were not bleeding because of the potent cauterization the laser cannons caused. He moaned, and Charles bent down beside him.

The soulless eyes of the young man would be a pair he would never forget, and he almost felt the need to take pity on him. He was barely 18 years old, and Charles was reminded of himself in everything including hair color.

"Kill me. Please?" The boy pleaded. Charles shook his head.

"What are they planning to do to the Dethcopters?" Even in the face of tragedy, he was still a negotiator.

The boy's head violently swung from side to side. Charles realized the young man was in shock, and couldn't even cry out in pain. He simply moaned pitifully.

"Tell me and I'll help you end it." The CFO goaded gently. The boy's shoulders twitched, and Charles realized that if there had been arms attached, they would have been reaching for him.

"There…there's a bomb. On one of them. We were going to blow up one and save the other for ourselves." He wheezed, sounding exhausted.

"Which one has the bomb?" Charles' brows came together while he watched the boy struggle for air.

"Dethcopter…one."

Charles shushed the boy, who looked at him gratefully, and lifted Caitir. Silently, he slid the blade through the boy's neck until it touched the wall, taking care to sever his brain stem so he felt no pain. A smile was permanently affixed to the young man's pale lips, and Charles reached out, closing those haunting eyes to the world. He could never unsee what he had witnessed, but he put it out of his head as best he could. After all, the enemy was just a child. Straightening up with difficulty, he broke into a limping run, pushing his body to the absolute limit while he still could.

* * *

"Piiiicklessss!" Nathan bellowed, wandering throughout Mordhaus. He stepped in blood, and tracked it around the parts of the house that had remained untouched by the war. The frontman wandered higher and higher until he caught sight of a nearly-naked drunk waving at him.

"Pickles! Why the fuck are you up here?" The redhead shrugged.

"Charles told me ta head for his office and stay there. He told me to lock the door and not come out. Hey, why do you have guns?"

Nathan shook his head.

"Long story. But hey, we've gotta go. Zoe wants us down at the panic room."

To Nathan's dismay, Pickles shook his head.

"Nope. I ain't goin, dood."

"Why? This is not a good time to fuck with me, Pickles. I'm still hungry and another psycho German chick wants my dick." The drummer waved him off.

"Listen, dood, as much as I love Zoe like a sister or somethin', when it comes down to fighting, I'm gonna listen to Charles, and Charles only. You can go if ya want. I'm gonna do what he said."

Nathan shrugged. The fighting had really died down. He didn't see the harm in letting Pickles lock himself away in the office. It was as well enforced as a panic room, and there was brandy that would keep him occupied.

They parted company, and Nathan retraced his steps.

* * *

"I thought you were dead."

"Guess again." Viktoria placed her hands on her hips and motioned to the pilot, who nodded. He flipped a switch, and Zoe could hear the blades above beginning to spin faster.

She made a run for it as soon as she saw the lifeless body of the Klokateer pilot next to the solider who now sat at the helm. Down the stairs the two women bolted, but Zoe was grabbed roughly by her hair before she could reach the bottom landing. She yelped, and twisted to hurl a punch at Viktoria, but was thrown down the remainder of the stairs and landed chin-first.

The German-woman stood above Zoe on the first step, looking almost amused.

"Get up." She snarled, hauling Zoe to her feet. Viktoria shoved Zoe, who bounced off the rack of Skwisgaar's guitars that served as a centerpiece. The Revengencer did not let up. She continued to use Zoe's weight against her, throwing her into this object and that by her hair and her clothes.

The corner of the conference table on the first level of the Dethcopter caught her in the stomach, and she cried out, clutching at her midsection. Viktoria looked down her nose at Zoe, who desperately tried to catch her breath.

"Jou are pathetic, jou know that?" A knee to the same area that had just connected with the table.

"Just a vorthless piece of shit." Viktoria lifted her leg and brought it down into Zoe's kidneys, flattening her on the floor.

"Jou are nothing. Jou could not protect Dethklok. Jou could not protect jour lover. And jou think that jou have the pover to keep me from my Nathan?" Viktoria kicked Zoe in the side again and again, letting out her aggression on the woman that curled into the fetal position beneath her.

The Dethcopter began to lift off the ground, and Viktoria backed up, satisfied with her work. She brushed herself off and was about to turn away, but found herself restrained.

"Yeah. I do."

That same blinding feeling of rage that she had experienced at the Klokateer exams boiled inside Zoe, and she lashed out, grabbing Viktoria by the shin and yanking her down. The Revengencer screeched, taking a disheveling blow to the face.

Zoe got to her knees and grabbed for one of the heavy chairs, knocking it over onto Viktoria's ribcage. The woman squealed, and struggled to get out from under the piece of furniture.

She didn't have to fish herself out. As the chopper began its ascension to flying height, Zoe grabbed Viktoria by her ankles and hauled her out from under the chair. She tossed her like a Frisbee into the wall, and was upon her as soon as she was able to stand.

* * *

Charles almost ran smack into Nathan, who looked at him in surprise.

"Nathan! I, ah, didn't expect to see you here." Charles said as he plunged towards his office, the door in his sights. Nathan, confused, turned around once again to follow him.

Charles made a grab for the door handle, but it was locked. He cursed, realizing that his keys were in his jacket pocket, wherever that had ended up.

"Pickles is in there." Nathan offered, and Charles banged on the door.

"Pickles! Fucking open up!"

No answer. Both frontman and manager began to beat on the door, to no avail.

Charles pressed his good ear to the reinforced door. From within, the sound of drunken snoring was audible. He cursed under his breath, knowing that when the drummer was in an alcohol-fueled stupor, an atomic bomb that detonated under his ass wouldn't wake him. That meant he couldn't just radio down to anyone. Leaning his forehead against the door, Charles cast a sidelong glance at Nathan.

"Where are the others?"

"I think they're still in the panic room."

Charles nodded.

"And Zoe?" Nathan shrugged.

"I don't know. She sent me to find Pickles. Said she had somethin' to take care of and would be back later for us."

Charles' head snapped up, and he looked at Nathan. He could hear the helicopter in the distance.

"When was this?" The frontman looked at him curiously.

"I dunno. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago?" He had never seen Charles look so frantic and…scared. It sent chills down his spine. Charles broke into a seesawing sprint once again that Nathan barely had to jog beside to keep up with.

"Where are you going?"

"There's no time! Nathan, there's a _bomb_ on the helicopter the rest of the band supposed to be on. That chopper needs to come down, now. We have to…." Charles paused. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it then. It only took him a moment to choose. He'd always known it would.

"We need to go see if the band is still inside, and then I need to get up to the roof."

Nathan took in the broken figure of his manager, and without waiting for approval, scooped him up in his arms and started running.

"You won't make it in time in the shape you're in."

* * *

The Dethcopter hovered high above Mordhaus, still ascending. Zoe rallied against Viktoria, putting all her strength into the hooks and uppercuts that Charles had drilled into her.

Blood oozed down the Revengencer's face. Zoe kneed her repeatedly in the stomach and then used an open palm technique on her diaphragm. She had never felt so powerful. So capable.

Finally her opponent snuck in a head-butt, and Zoe stepped backwards, taking Viktoria with her. She slapped the woman across the face and drove an elbow into her spleen. A fist into her collarbone. A chop to the larynx. The heels of her palms against her ears.

That was the blow that did the vessel fell backwards, unable to breathe or hear, due to the implants, onto the platform that was still open to accommodate passengers. She grabbed hold of one of the hinges, wind whipping her hair around her face. Zoe's clear and even eyes stared down at her, the inner shadows of the Dethcopter obscuring all but her head once Viktoria's eyes adjusted to the outside light.

"How?" She screamed, referring to Zoe's response to her earlier statements. Zoe smirked, spitting blood off to the side.

She kicked Viktoria in the head, grabbing her by the hand that had slipped from the hydraulic hinges just before she could fall off the edge of the platform. Dark eyes begged her, trembling lips tried to form words. Zoe was calm. She knew what she had to do. Walking Viktoria out farther on the platform while still holding onto the hydraulics herself, she watched the woman's head snap up and down like she was at a tennis match, looking from her to the ground far, far below them both. Even Mordhaus' Viking helm looked tiny from their height.

Zoe smirked.

"Because that's our bread and butter you're fucking with." She yelled into the wind, and then released her grasp.

Viktoria disappeared into the distance far below, her scream sucked up with the wind. Zoe looked after her for a long moment, before turning and trying to figure out what to do to make the enemy pilot set her down.

* * *

From across the water, Rawhide stared at Mordhaus with a smile. He had been beaten, yes, but the cost had been worth it. The beautiful chaos was not yet completed, but he knew he didn't have time to wait and watch if he wanted to try again another day. He watched Viktoria fall, unconcerned as he had the information he needed, and chuckled.

Rawhide shrugged, bending down to pick up his fur-lined cloak. Careful not to get the blood from his stump on the article of clothing, he turned, disappearing into the mountains while whistling a gleeful tune.

* * *

Nathan and Charles burst out onto the nose of the dragonspire, where Charles had fought Melmord. The frontman set Charles down, and both of them waved their arms at the Dethcopter. The band was still inside. They were safe. And they could just see the grinning face the windows of the chopper created.

When nothing happened, and the copter only rose higher, Charles' heart sank like a stone.

It all happened so fast, he barely knew what to think. He watched as Zoe defeated Viktoria and forced her to fall to her death. They looked like ants. He made frantic signals in the air, but she didn't see him. She turned away. Both Nathan and Charles watched as the helicopter continued to rise. The setting sun blinded their vision suddenly, peeping out opportunistically from behind the pinkened clouds.

That image hung in the air for a few precious moments before they were shielding their eyes for a different reason.

A deep rumble reached their ears, and with shocked eyes, the pair on top the dragonspire watched as the Dethcopter burst into flames from the inside out.

And then it simply exploded.

The blast was hot enough to make Charles wince before the realization hit him. The fallout rained over Mordhaus slowly, and hot ash hit him in the face when he dropped his hand away as the mushroom cloud began to dissipate.

No tears reached his eyes. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, and he dropped Caitir, which clattered on the stone surface. He felt numb. More so than usual.

Pieces of his life flashed before his eyes, and he remembered more vividly than he had ever remembered anything before.

"_Zoe Warwick. It's a pleasure, Mr. Ofdensen. I'm a big fan of your work."_

"_Excuse me, _my_ work?"_

Breathe in.

"_Now. Do you think you can handle this?"_

"…_Yes."_

Breathe out.

"_That's for hitting a girl."_

"_That's for hitting your boss."_

Inhale.

"_If you must know, I, ah, play guitar as a hobby. Used to be in a band myself."_

"_I'd like to hear it sometime."_

Exhale.

"_Thrity-seven seventy-two…Miss Warwick…_Zoe_. Take off the mask, Zoe."_

Chest rising.

"_Charles."_

"_Hm?"_

"_Come home, and bring our boys with you."_

Chest falling.

"_Just let me love you, just this once. Please, Charlie?"_

Air in.

"_Yes. I love you, Zoe Marie Warwick."_

"_I love you too."_

Air out.

Slowly, Charles remembered how to breathe as the visions assaulted him. Her sweetest smile, her softest gaze, the texture of her skin, the richness of her hair…he couldn't see past her, could barely recognize that he was still on top of the dragonspire looking down at the flaming bits of helicopter that landed on and around Mordhaus, and filtering out the screams of remaining Klokateers that were being murdered by the heavy metal rain.

"_I love you. So much."_

"_I love you too, Charlie."_

Nathan watched Charles from a distance, his black hair whipping around his face in the wind. He was ready to spring if Charles tried anything stupid. Nathan was almost positive he would. After all, he wasn't the one in love with her, and _he_ wanted to fall off the edge of the tower. It was weird to see his stuffy manager's face flitting between so many, vaguely visible expressions.

To his surprise, the CFO removed his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his dirty and tattered shirt mechanically. Replacing the crooked frames on his face, Charles stared over the carnage, which was doused in beautiful pastel hues of blazing pink and a fun orange. Colors Zoe loved. Colors she had painted his life with. Painted his heart with.

One of his hands reached for his throat. Nathan stepped forward, concerned, but caught Charles' gaze out of the corner of his eye. The frontman stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that look all too well.

"I chose you. I, ah, promised you I would. But…I loved her, Nathan." Charles admittedly quietly. Nathan didn't know how to respond, or why Charles was telling him this.

"Uh…thank you." He finally said, watching his manager reach under his tattered collar. A glint of gold in his peripheral vision made him look up, confused.

Charles produced the thin gold chain from around his neck and pulled it over his head, staring at the object the chain held. It glowed in the strong rays from the fading sun.

"_But, ah, Zoe, before you go talk to the guys, there's something I need to ask you."_

He was going to drop it off the edge of the spire, to already begin to put an end to the reminders, but stopped when the inner inscription caught the light. Retracting his arm, Charles slid the object off the chain, weighing it in his palm. He already knew what it said by heart.

"Until _deth_ do us part." Charles murmured under his breath, and dropped the chain instead. Gazing at the gold ring in his palm for just a moment longer, he plucked it up and slid it onto the fourth finger of his left hand, a place where it had never gotten a chance to sit before. A place where he believed he had to deny its existence. Bitterly staring at his clenched fist, he realized it had deserved to stay there from the moment he had called the minister in secretly to perform the ceremony.

Nathan had the tact not to comment on Charles' wedding ring. He wasn't sure how he felt about Charles having gotten married and not telling them, but it didn't matter now anyway. She was gone.

Zoe was dead.

The sun dropped lower against the horizon. Nathan looked out across the sky, green eyes piercingly bright.

"It's, uh…getting kind of chilly out here."

"Yeah."

Charles straightened up, and looked out at the smoldering wreckage. Squinting, he adjusted his glasses one last time and ran a hand through his hair. He turned, walking past Nathan with the straightest stride he could manage.

There was work to be done.


	34. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

A seemingly sedate car pulled off the premises, but no Klokateer approached to inspect it. They merely opened the gates, the habits of their master not something they were in a position to question.

Charles drove. He was tired, but focused easily on the road. He was too much machine, those days, to give into the error of sleep. To aid in his quest, he turned on the radio, and the familiar strains of Neil Young's "Rockin' in the Free World" greeted him on his morning excursion.

Charles tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his new Mercedes handling nicely against the road that grew more pitted as he progressed.

His commute took an hour and a half, but it was worth it. It was always worth it.

The trees and cliff faces gave way to a neat little town. Turning off the highway, Charles took the exit that led down into the heart of the houses and small businesses.

No longer did the inhabitants question the expensive car. To them, Charles was simply a wealthy business man who just needed to get away from it all. And, in all actuality, they were right.

He rolled down his window and waved casually to the old man in the rocking chair outside the antique shop. That man was always there, and Charles had begun to take a liking to the stories he had to tell, when he could spare the time to listen. It cleansed his soul, more often than not.

Dethklok believed he disappeared at these times for important meetings. In a sense, it _was_ a meeting, but not the kind they envisioned. He hated to play them the way he did for such a matter, but it was a necessary evil, as so many things were.

The roads grew shorter and narrower until he slowed the car to a halt, flicking on his left blinker for the one vehicle behind him. Turning into the driveway, Charles killed the engine and got out of the car.

The small colonial townhouse was made more friendly by the family of robins that chirped in the nest they had built inside the bush that flanked the right side of the stairs. With a spring in his step, the CFO skipped the first and third stair and mounted the porch. He felt for his keys in his pocket, slid the proper one into the lock, and pushed open the mahogany colored door.

Slipping inside, Charles was immediately met with the scent of fresh coffee and muffins. His mouth watered- those were some of the little things he looked forward to. He removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack, and then slipped his shoes off and set them by the door.

A shaggy white dog barked, and ran out to greet him, yipping and almost skidding out on the foyer rug. Charles chuckled, kneeling down to pet the animal that wagged its tail and looked up at him in bliss.

"Hey, Bentley. How are you this morning?" The dog bowed in response, entire backside wiggling side to side while it waited for Charles to stand.

He padded through the house in his socks, rolling up his sleeves and removing his tie, which he laid on the back of the living room couch. There was no point in stealth- Bentley had made sure of that, besides the fact that his nails clicked on the hardwood and tile floor of the kitchen.

Charles examined the table, and found his target. Scoping out the room's only other occupant, besides the dog, he sidled up to the table and reached for a muffin. However, a deftly wielded spatula smacked into his knuckles before he could complete the snatch, and he winced in surprised.

"No. You have to wait. I'm not finished!" Charles rolled his eyes, and leaned over, kissing the crazed cook.

"Good morning, Zoe."

"Mornin'." She replied, turning back to her frying pans.

Charles sat down at the table, breathing deeply and reminiscing when he caught sight of the tiny scar on Zoe's neck. It peeped out above her t-shirt collar, and he winced inwardly. He knew just how long that scar actually was, how many more there were, and how they had gotten there.

The sun had been his enemy for days after he found out. Neither of them had expected that turn of events, but it opened a familiar door of opportunity for them. While he and Nathan had been blinded to the Dethcopter by the glinting sunlight, Zoe had parachuted free of the craft. She had known it would be a crash landing, but after spotting the bomb at the back of the chopper, it was worth a shot.

She hadn't been visible under the veil of smoke and after the wind had taken her parachute where it willed, which was the far gully on the other side of the complex. Thank god for the breeze- otherwise she would've never made it out from under the fallout.

Zoe had crash landed in a tree and was able to release the parachute harness. She tumbled down into the water and rocks below, breaking her arm and a leg. Unable to swim in such a state, the battered lawyer had helplessly floated downstream until she'd been propelled over a small waterfall. The rocks and rubble from the battle that were below had ripped one of her breasts off entirely, shredded the other, and mangled her flesh from her thigh to her jaw on the left side.

Hours of bleeding and slipping in and out of consciousness passed before a Klokateer who was scouting for any extra bodies to tally had found her. She had looked up at him and demanded he get her to a hospital- not the Mordhaus hospital, a different one. And if he told Charles, he was as good as dead. She was worried she wasn't going to make it through, as shock settled into her system. She didn't need him getting his hopes up, only to have them crushed again. Likewise, she didn't need to spend the rest of eternity pissed off at herself for almost making it.

Charles grimaced at the memory. Three weeks. _Three weeks_ of torture. The soulless agony. The wondrous pity he received from Dethklok and those who had survived the chaos. Their fallen hero. His dead wife. The memorial service had been the worst. He didn't know how he had kept himself from having a breakdown. All he knew was he looked as impassive as usual, which was all he needed to get through the day among the people he dealt with.

And then one day, out of the blue, a text message from a number he thought would never see scroll across his Dethphone's screen again. The person on the other end wanted a meeting outside Mordhaus. Angrily Charles had chastised the person for using that number. He had seethed, until another text had quoted him the inscription on Caitir's forte.

It was really her.

And so Charles' secret life had resumed, in a manner. Zoe was alive. They were married. She couldn't go back to work, they decided. Rawhide had not been found and had not been among the dead, so it was far too dangerous. Thus, Charles hid her. They had built an existence in this small town together, and finally, Charles had it all once again.

And, more than he had ever expected.

Zoe expertly slid the hash browns and eggs onto his plate, and Charles looked up at her pleadingly. She made a face at him while serving herself.

"Yes, now you may have a muffin."

He smirked and grabbed a steaming blueberry pastry off the top of the basket. Zoe seated herself beside Charles and smiled at him, twining her fingers with his.

"How long?" She murmured. Charles was lost for words for but a moment.

"Two days." Zoe mulled this over, sighing. He knew what she was thinking. Their time together was always growing shorter or getting cut off abruptly. Still, she put on a brave face.

"Well, it's good to have you home for a while. Means I can take a break." Charles squirmed in his seat. He knew what that meant, and not all of it was something he looked forward to each time he returned.

He was about to comment when a noise caught his attention from the living room. Zoe huffed, looking from her breakfast to Charles with her best puppy-dog eyes. Wordlessly, he grinned and pushed back his chair, kissing the crown of her head before going to placate the source of the sound.

Charles's face softened the moment he crossed into the living room, the way it always did. He walked over to the wall and looked down, smiling softly. Reaching out, he picked up the cause of the noise.

"Well good morning to you, too, Sarah." Charles cradled the infant in his arms protectively. She made a cooing noise, and he felt his face beam with pride.

Charles never liked children. Or, at least, he had never liked children or understood a parent's affection for their offspring until the day Zoe had gone into labor. Paling after the phone call from the hospital, he excused himself from under Dethklok's curious scrutiny, and drove like a madman all the way there, worried sick.

He had been more than apprehensive. The whole idea of his being a father was downright upsetting. But when he had held her for the first time, and Zoe was tiredly, but broadly lit up from within, something in him had changed.

He hated being away from them both, but he didn't have a choice. Charles loved his family. His _entire_ family. And that included Dethklok, who needed him just as much as Zoe and Sarah. He had to protect and help them all. It was a difficult job, but someone had to do it, and that someone was him.

Charles felt Sarah grab one of his fingers with her tiny hands, and chuckled.

"Are you sure you and Nathan didn't have a fling? She's about as strong as him already." He called out to the kitchen jokingly, receiving the sound of a petulant raspberry in response. Bentley twined in and out of Charles' legs as he crossed to the window, peering out at the retreating bicycle of the paper boy.

"Oh, Sarah." He began, gazing down at the peaceful face of his daughter and then back out at the street. Sighing, part of the weight returned to shoulders, and he held her just a little closer to his chest.

"Nevermind. You'll, ah, find out soon enough."

_Fin_.


End file.
